A Vivid Vision
I danced to sleep
And dreamt a dream
where I danced
all night long
I tap, and I dance
It was such a delight
I even tapped
away from dream land.
The ocean breeze never shuts up.
Currents, rough currents.
Washing up on that horrible shore when there’s better places.
This beach ball.
It’s like my disability.
Gets messy from sand, and tapped lightly into the air.
Except, such a beach ball gets put away eventually.
Deflated.
Defeated from being a beach ball at the end of the day.
The ocean breeze is sandy failure.
Whooshing sounds of people splashing.
My disability.
Gets passed around like a little shovel used for sandcastles.
Gets left behind on the shore as the shore shifts.
The breeze never stops.
The shoreline is changing.
I’m proud of the tangled seaweed.
That feels like something.
The black cat traversed the alley
when the pavement kept the rain.
The houses gave no answer.
No one looked out from the windows.
It walked across
the broken concrete.
It stood near the wall of bricks
until the rain
tapped the metal above its head.
It passed those corners
as before.
It let out one low cry.
The alley heard it alone.
The storm stayed over the alley.
The alley then grew silent.
Daylight came over the roofs.
The old bricks kept their place
but no shadow crossed them.
Sunny bunny hip hop gave a spin and a slide
Fell on her head, and gave the floor a ride
What is she doing? The ballet dancers asked
Being her grandma, I wished that I was masked
I guess they call it hip hop, a tap dancer said.
She tapped her feet all the way to the head.
Hop hop? What is hip hop? Asked Mrs. Middle
I am not sure, I said, but it frightens me a little.
Rumple Stein tapped his cane
on the dusty floorboards,
gathering the children in the
mansion's dark parlor.
"Long ago, this very house
belonged to a hunchback
goblin named Quasimodo, "he
whispered, pointing up.
"He had ears like a bat, feet
like a duck, and a crooked
back shaped like a giant
potato."
The grandfather clock
chimed midnight, its heavy
ticks matching the rhythm of
the children's racing hearts.
Quasimodo didn't want to hurt
anyone, Rumple Stein grinned,
he just hated people making loud
noises.
Suddenly, a loud, scraping
THUD- THUD- THUD echoed right
above their heads from the
dark attic stairs.
When the kids don't clean their
rooms, he stalks through the
halls and hides their favorite
toys!
The children gasped, looking
nervously at the dark corners
of the room as the curtains
rustled.
"He is watching right now,
waiting to see who leaves
their shoes on the floor
tonight."
Rumple Stein chuckled softly,
closed his book, and said,
"Now go clean up before
Quasimodo finds you."
Written: May 5th, 2026, for contest sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
1st place contest winner
*****************
1. Cinderella
There once was a Fairy so frazzled,
whose magic was sloppy and dazzled.
She meant to make gowns—
but turned mice into clowns—
Cinderella left early, bedazzled.
2. Little Riding Hood
Red met the big wolf on the trail,
who said, "I'll eat you!"—quite the detail.
But Red, being sweet,
said, "Please—after you eat,"
and the wolf felt too guilty to prevail.
3. Goldilocks
Goldilocks strolled in with a grin,
But the Bears had installed a new PIN.
She tapped and poked and guessed—
Papa Bear was impressed—
And they adopted her in as kin.
4. Jack and the Beanstalk
A Giant cried, "Fee-fi-fo-fum!"
But softly—his courage was numb.
He whispered instead,
"Please don't steal my bread…"
And Jack hugged him and called him "my chum."
5. Snow White
The Queen asked her mirror one day,
"Who's fairest?" in her usual way.
It sighed, "Well… Snow's cute,
but you've got better *suit*—
maybe focus on *fashion*, okay?"
Our head is tapped, in bliss mists capped
and lower chakras join the dance.
We walk on a path God has mapped,
silence and stillness our soul’s stance.
The Absolute is recognised,
manifest and unmanifest
but we are not self-realised,
for ego’s an unwelcome guest.
Be this as it may, we are still,
poised in the void, by bliss seduced;
love perches on heart’s window sill,
leaving nothing to be deduced.
In 7th grade English, my class got to read,
With Mrs. Kaminsky, my first
Taste of Shakespeare, the dream of “A Midsummer Night”
And for weeks we were fully immersed.
We couldn’t have done it alone, without help –
The language and style, to us
Was a challenge and yet with our teacher to guide,
We sailed through it without too much fuss.
I’d need a refresher to dig out the plot
From the recesses deep in my brain,
Though the love of the language and what it inspired,
Front and center, to this day, remain.
My grandson just told me (he’s 7th grade now)
That in school, with his class, he’ll soon start
The very same play, his first Shakespeare, as well,
And that knowledge tapped into my heart.
I hope I can find my old copy from school,
Which is scribbled with jottings I wrote
When, to 7th grade me, the idea of a grandson
Was more than remotely remote.
I was minding my own business one day,
sipping coffee, scrolling calmly,
feeling young enough to outrun time
and maybe even sassing it a little.
Then~
without warning,
without paperwork,
without even the courtesy of a calendar alert~
age leapt out from behind a houseplant,
tapped me on the shoulder,
and whispered,
“Surprise… you’re the same age as old people now.”
I gasped
then glanced around.
There must be some mistake.
They must’ve meant someone creakier, crankier,
someone who voluntarily discusses fiber.
But no~
the mirror nodded,
my knees filed a complaint,
and my back muttered,
“I was expecting you.”
And that’s how it happened:
one quiet day,
one innocent moment,
and suddenly~
I was my own timeline punchline.
I was minding my own business~
the next thing I know
I’m the same age as old people.
EEGADS!
Life can so often be unexpectedly amusing
Perhaps not so if you are into self abusing
Today its five am with headlight I'm on my usual daily run
I encounter a well dressed tall man a white shirt adorns his back
he rides a pushbike which is parked in a bicycle rack
I notice what I assume to be a cigarette is held within his hand
He gestures toward me It takes a moment before i understand
Would you like a puiff at first I thought him drunk
I realise its dope. No thank you I'm not into inhaling junk
Have you never ever tried he says . No
Me with long white hair and beard barefoot he says you look like you do
Too many words and syllables now to form a monoku
I also tell him I don't drink alcohol coffee only eat food raw
Whats your age he says Seventy eight
You're looking good quite impressed with what he saw
Now this is not the first time that I have encountered
due to my appearance this assumption you look like you do
Tapped on the shoulder from behind many years ago
Where do we get some hooch in this town we're new
A man was once Jung at heart
His dreams set him apart
He tapped the collective unconscious
People thought him preposterous
So he channelled his visions through art.
in haste for ever boisterous friend in grey coat tapped on my door
What can I possibly do
with all these sun beams
trapped in my hair locks
and permeating every fiber of my being?
All these everlasting days
and everchanging nights,
could they be written by a poet
who tapped into their eternal shine?
For all of us
can be the poets of our own lives:
all it takes is one fragment
of eternal sunshine.
Start with the fracture -
the splintered thing lodged in your ribs
that no cough can dislodge.
Call it "inspiration" if you must,
but know it is just hunger
with a prettier name.
Next, the bones:
a rhythm tapped absentmindedly
on a diner table,
the half-heard melody
of a stranger’s laugh,
the way your childhood home
still hums in your teeth
when you say its name.
Now, the bloodwork -
verbs writhing like minnows in your palms,
adjectives that stick like burrs to your sleeves.
(Here is where you’ll bleed.
A poem is not a wound,
but the salt rubbed into one.)
Arrange the fragments on the page.
Watch them refuse to fit.
This is the part where you learn:
a poem is not a puzzle,
but the hand that shakes
as it forces the pieces together.
Finally, the lie -
the smoothing, the sanding,
the pretense that this
was always the shape
you intended.
Sign your name at the bottom.
Walk away before it cracks.
He tapped his cane and shook his cup
A rich man tossed a Ben Franklin in
Lifting his shades, the beggar took a peek…
fairly sprinted to the nearest bar
~ as the Good Lord chuckled from afar
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.