#10 on top 100 recent poems as of June 30, 2025
I see a dark cypress
towering in front of me
and behind it is a village
The tiny town
is wrapped in blue -
the blue of a night
that captures my imagination
a saffron crescent moon
and stars like balls
of miniature suns citrine-spiraled
wink at me
through yellow curly cues
I want to swirl with them
through the sky
which is water-color whorled
a steeple church
and houses sapphire-hued
sit ensconced beneath
undulating hills
fed by comfort -
I wish to snuggle
inside this scene
with Vincent’s stars
dancing in the vortex
of my slumbering mind
The sky staggers
in s
p
i
r
a
l
s of sleepless blue,
a celestial storm stitched from sapphire and sorrow,
where stars swell, simmering seeds of unstable light
trembling like thoughts too vast to be contained.
Above the village, night kneels in restless reverence.
Roofs rest in rigid resignation,
windows dim as quiet witnesses to cosmic unrest,
while the steeple stretches upward like a hesitant prayer
that never quite reaches its answer.
A cypress rises, black, brooding, blade-like
a funereal flame fixed in the soil of silence,
cutting through the composition like grief given form,
binding earth to the fevered heavens above.
The wind is unseen yet insinuated,
a wandering whisper weaving through the whorled sky,
stirring stars into spinning, shimmering syntax,
as though the night itself has lost grammatical control.
Nothing here is still.
Everything leans light lurches, darkness deepens, distance dissolves.
The world holds together on tension alone,
as though the painter captured not a landscape,
but the moment reality began to tremble.
The rose that bears delicate flowers,
adorned with soft scented petals,
resplendent in many shapes and color hues,
bears a stem of thorns from which pain ensues,
to the hand that grasps the rose for closer view.
For the closer we get to enjoy loves ecstasy fulfilled
The more we risk the pain of petals turned to thorns, pointed poignant.
In the backlash of disdain, with love lost again,
to the black petals of pain, in whorled layers
of regret and suffering.
Assaulted by waves of profanity
high tides of depravity
Bestrewn, shards of urbanity
~ flotsam of humanity
Oh dreamy lass of fragrant wiles,
a parasol of white unfurled..
your bloom beguiles her moonlight miles,
a mirror pale in petals whorled.
Her face in phases does allure
and casts enchantment not demure,
yet bud’s flirtation just as sure;
a flower-moon on long stem’s dance
with wind in sweep and sway romance,
vanilla toffee scent does prance
beyond the buxom moon all smiles
as incense wafts from airstream’s world
and paramours does damsel lure —
enkindled moths in nectar trance.
Susan Ashley
February 18, 2023
(Fragmented Rhyme)
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Fragmented Rhyme
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Rhymes confirmed with: rhymezone.com
Syllables (8 per line) confirmed with: howmanysyllables.com
Rhyme Scheme: A B A B C C C D D D A B C D
Snoopy was slamming through the skies
At top speed, stealthier than the other fliers
Flying ace of the year, he assured anyone who would listen
Tweety bird sat in the co-pilot seat, knowing he’d best be quiet
They looped and whorled and rat-a-tatted the enemy
Guns blazing, fierce and untouched.
Sixty-two bullet holes, and they were unscathed.
Snoopy stretched his hand out and knocked over his water bottle.
" Do not give heed, until you see or hear it with your own eyes and ears. Where one person will jump then all will follow."
quote_by poet
We as creatures, want to believe everything,
what we've been given as truth in broadcasting,
internet, and publishing, as enlightenment teaching,
which is not most of the time.
Those that have a handle, on a technology's world
can write whatever opinion they have. Whorled
and knurl photographs, to what they want us to see
and govern our free judgment to what they want us to be.
We visit or dine together, but are we listening.
Everyone in hand, sitting looking and reading
their smartphones. No life for family time.
I can just imagine God holding his smartphone
as we sit all alone and left on our own.
3/7/2022
Let's Explore Digital Technology Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Simon Rogerson
I believed it was the end of the world.
Prepared to leave, the mortal whorled.
Into the domain of the spiritual pearled.
Into the darkness and absurd.
But the butterfly made us realize.
Death is the starting point that applies.
I've evolved into a spiritual not demonize.
From a seasoned butterfly and eagle eyes.
Written: October 06, 2021
Invisible to the naked eye
traumatization (courtesy
chastising and reproaching -
by fellow classmates
and later in life
birth parents and inlaws
dealt hefty figurative jab)
tremendously impacted yours truly
analogous to him moving bajillion miles away
compounded by his withdrawn demeanor
diagnosed when he reached middle adulthood
as schizoid personality disorder,
thus exhibiting obvious developmental delay
bullied courtesy nasty brutes,
who scapegoated and rejoiced
with hip hip hurray,
meanwhile I experienced
terrible psychological melee
escaping to safe confines of bedroom,
where I wanted to stay
for mine remaining years of life.
Retrospective review
now approaching my doddering old age
constituted more'n one cruel (cheap) trick
played on super tramping urchin,
who traipes across virtual global stage
ensnared within whorled webbed wide
spending his hard earned itty bitty wage
spinning one strand after another.
In the fragility of dreams
Slowly withers with the complexities
Of life while also overshadowing
Flowers on tufts of whorled branches and leaves
Drowning bleakness in unforgiving world
An infinitude of grief, death has stolen
Whilst the imperfections human has claimed
Infinity of disregarded blithe
And the unforgotten echoing sounds
While dreams grow bonding loss souls on restless
Moonless indigo sky, no stars dangle
Insidious sleep a chance of finding
Fragile trouble soul disastrous defeats
Which still doth grow fragility of dreams
5/18/2020
Pain resonates in the mud. Unbalances
you, sticks you in centuries one can only
imagine. Toppled spheres atop
consecrated pews littered with charred
Easter missalettes. Doesn’t count as
abstract art, your canvas. Bleeds,
splattered hostile wails, upended
concrete and tea whorled into one.
Colombo, port on the majestic Kelani
river. Sri Lanka’s heart. Suffered a
cardiac arrest that day. Triage, the
silent saint. Florence Nightingale
stirred to round up the troops.
Revenge you say? Ambassador suites
were available. You had the means.
When does an outcome thoroughly blossom
through snow falls and brokenhearted sunsets?
Life provides inspiration of awesome
born adventures to sing with no regrets.
Hope, faith, love nonstop of acknowledgement
great seductive beauty and temptation;
recall religious impoverishment
always fearing committed relation.
God step back , applaud His created world,
an endless space unfurl a breathtaking
beauty nature's hands as energy whorled.
No fractured mirrored surface myth-making.
In the brightest bright of the heaven stars;
brokenhearted sunsets are waning scars.
1-24-2018
Poetry Contest:'Best Sonnet'
Sponsored By: Laura Loo
He could see her highly strung face
Behind the cloaked veil
A face taught to behold beautiful turbulent.
He could feel the shiver in her timid heart
And the fearful spasm
Running down her spine.
He held her hand and whorled the bangles
While hundred of foes
Opposing two hearts
Kept their eyes glued in line.
He stained her red;
By making that vermilion spread.
He jeweled her up with holy beads
And consecrated her with the garnet ink.
She devoted herself to him
When he adorned her nape
With the sacred tinsel tasseled thread.
He could see the love in her eyes for him
And with that sense of relief,
She embraced him tight
And said in a moist tone
As he kissed her lachrymose eyes,
'Our love will always bring the holy grail back.'
Rumours
plyed, garlands
whorled to shape,
veiled in chaste, she
appeared.
Time ticks on
and I am its minutes
crafting the hour
of poetic germination.
No longer will I write words
reminiscent of willow-like catkins.
But shall bloom true poetic flowers
whose petals shall be whorled
scented words pollinated with truths.
And whose essence shall be colored
in peace, love, unity—all cupped
together—housed in a sepal of liberty.
And my Edenic poetic garden
will be an ebony vase
overflowing with bouquets of beauty’s
clever creations—cultivated
in the fertile black soil of my watered soul.
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.