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Best Poems Written by Dufflite Xetaw

Below are the all-time best Dufflite Xetaw poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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A Lament

Fleeting autumn breeze,
Whispers of you drift away,
Leaves fall, hearts remain.

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Ode to Zilch

Oh, Nothing! You sly, elusive spud,  
You’re the star of this poem (though technically dud).  
You haunt empty fridges, blank quizzes, and minds,  
The gap where my keys hide and my weekend plans wind.  

You’re the punchline of vacuums, the muse of bare shelves,  
The reason I’m talking to lamps by myself.  
You’re the “E” in my bank account, crisp and austere,  
The punch I forgot in my joke over here.  

Some say you’re profound—philosophers swoon,  
But let’s be real: you’re a nap’s favorite tune.  
You’re the silence between a bad pun and “Huh?”,  
The plot of a mime’s TED Talk—oh, brother, enough!

You wear pajamas daily, yet still blend right in,  
A champion of naps, but you never quite win.  
You’re the cloudless blue sky with no bird, plane, or flair,  
The “U up?” text sent to a cactus. Bold. Rare. 

So here’s to you, Nothing, you cheeky old void,  
The world’s quietest meme, forever deployed.  
Though poets may weep for your depth, I insist:  
You’re the *something* I missed… wait. Dang. Plot twist!  

---  
P.S. If you liked this poem, pay me in air.  
(It’s fitting, since Nothing and I split despair.)

Details | Dufflite Xetaw Poem

A Kiss in the Dark

It begins
like the first drop of rain on parched earth—
a whisper,
not yet a touch,
but a promise hanging in the air.

The world dissolves;
walls collapse into shadows,
the clock forgets its ticking.
We are suspended—
two constellations spiraling
toward collision,
a secret carved into the night.

Your breath is a feather,
brushing against my skin,
and my heartbeat
is a moth
trapped in the lantern’s glow.

In this darkness,
where sight surrenders,
I feel everything—
the gravity of your nearness,
the quiet tremble of your soul,
the weight of words unspoken.

This kiss is no kiss at all,
but a quiet revolution,
a map to the unknown,
a key to the door
I never dared open.

Outside, the stars watch
with their silent, jealous light.
The moon hides behind clouds,
a voyeur cloaked in silver.

And as our lips meet,
the universe exhales—
not with fire,
but with the soft, unrelenting hum
of two infinities touching.

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Celestial Symphony

Beneath a canvas of boundless dark,
Where velvet skies embrace a fiery arc,
Mountains slumber, shadows deep,
Guardians of a world wrapped in quiet sleep.

The Milky Way ignites, a river of fire,
Flames of stars, celestial choir,
Molten hues of amber and red,
A cosmic path where dreams are led.

Hills rise like whispers, soft and low,
Clad in grasses with an autumnal glow,
The valley cradles a silent stream,
Reflecting heavens in a liquid dream.

A cold breeze hums, gentle, serene,
Carving silence through this midnight scene,
Its song weaves threads of time and space,
Binding Earth to its stellar embrace.

Oh, radiant tempest, chaos, and calm,
A sight so vast, a universe's psalm,
The blind may not see but through this rhyme,
Feel the universe's eternal chime.

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The A to Z of Countries

A is for Australia, full of weird beasts,
Where even the cute ones can bite you at least.

B is for Brazil, where football is life,
And people dance samba with joy (and no strife).

C is for Canada, polite and so nice,
Even their insults come with advice.

D is for Denmark, with pastries divine,
And a happiness level off the chart line.

E is for Egypt, land of the old,
Where mummies stay wrapped and pyramids hold.

F is for France, where bread is a dream,
But don’t ever mess with their wine or their cream.

G is for Germany, beer, cars, and might,
And sausages eaten at morning and night.

H is for Hungary, but don’t get it wrong,
They have food so good, you’ll eat all day long.

I is for India, spices galore,
Curry so hot, it’ll knock you to the floor.

J is for Japan, sushi so grand,
And toilets that clean you with jets on demand.

K is for Kenya, safaris so wild,
Lions just chilling while tourists get riled.

L is for Luxembourg, tiny but strong,
You blink and you miss it, but hey, it’s not wrong.

M is for Mexico, tacos and cheer,
But don’t trust the hot sauce—it burns for a year!

N is for Norway, fjords and cold air,
And prices so high, your wallet will swear.

O is for Oman, deserts and heat,
A land where the camels take naps on the street.

P is for Portugal, wine and the sea,
And a love for Ronaldo, as strong as can be.

Q is for Qatar, money so high,
Even their ATMs wear suits and a tie.

R is for Russia, where vodka is king,
And winter is long—it lasts through the spring!

S is for Switzerland, chocolate and banks,
And watches precise to time all your pranks.

T is for Thailand, food spicy and sweet,
With beaches so dreamy, you’ll never want to leave.

U is for Uganda, gorillas so cool,
Living their best lives, just breaking the rules.

V is for Vietnam, coffee so strong,
One sip and you're jittery all the day long.

W is for Wales, with sheep on the hills,
And words in their language that give you the chills.

X is for Xianggang (Hong Kong's other name),
Sky-high buildings and dim sum the game.

Y is for Yemen, ancient and grand,
With mountains and history spread through the land.

Z is for Zimbabwe, Victoria Falls,
Where nature goes big, and adventure calls!

—

So that’s the world, from A to Z,
With laughs along the way for you and me!

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DREAD

I
feel
a weight,
a shadow,
expanding within.
It grows in spirals, silent, cold.

Each thought
unfolds,
clawing at
the edges of me.
I am consumed by what is not.

The air
thins. I
cannot run.
The unseen watches.
Its gaze burns deeper than the dark.

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Whispers of The Night

Tears fall silently,
Shadows stretch across my heart,
Night holds me gently.

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The Sea Remembers

The sea remembers all it cannot keep,
Each wave a story, crashing into shore,
Its secrets held in silence, buried deep.
A sailor's prayer, a widow’s dreamless sleep,
The driftwood echo of a lover’s lore—
The sea remembers all it cannot keep.
It sings of storms and treasures lost in sweep,
Of shipwrecked years and voices heard no more,
Its secrets held in silence, buried deep.
It never rests, its tides forever creep,
A memory that lingers evermore.
The sea remembers all it cannot keep.
It cradles sorrow where the shadows weep,
A lullaby beneath the ocean floor—
Its secrets held in silence, buried deep.
And though we leave, it mourns, it does not sleep—
We are the myths upon its moaning shore.
The sea remembers all it cannot keep,
Its secrets held in silence, buried deep.

Details | Dufflite Xetaw Poem

Beneath the Glittering Dust

In the heart of the jungle,
where trees whisper secrets to the wind,
the earth bleeds gold,
and with it,
dreams torn from the hands of the desperate.

Here, shadows move in silence,
not creatures of the night,
but lives unseen—
women with hollow eyes
that hold the weight of too many nights
and not enough mornings.

The air is thick, heavy with promises
whispered by men
whose hands reek of violence
and greed—
gold-streaked hands
that clutch at flesh
as if it were the earth they are mining.

Despair lingers in every corner,
in the broken smiles of the forgotten,
in the laughter that turns to sobs
in the small hours
when darkness swallows the stars whole.

Loneliness stalks like a predator,
its claws raking across fragile dreams,
its breath hot with the stench
of lives reduced to shadows,
of hopes smothered under the weight
of the unyielding soil.

Each day begins with the same question:
how much is a soul worth
when weighed against gold?
How much blood
for a fleeting glint
of sunlight in the dust?

Memories of home—
fields that once held
the promise of fruit and freedom—
haunt the edges of their minds,
replaced by barren landscapes,
by rivers poisoned
and hearts hardened.

And yet,
in the spaces between despair,
there is the faintest trace
of a song long forgotten,
a fragment of a dream
that refuses to be silenced.

But the jungle hums louder.
The machines roar.
The men shout.
And the women walk on,
their bodies bearing
the weight of the world’s greed,
their lives swallowed
by the glittering dust.

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The Planners' Peace

Smoke curls where laughter once lived,
a street of bricks turned brittle dust,
where a child once dreamed of growing wings.

The air carries a silence loud with grief,
a mother clutching memories,
a father holding nothing but loss.

They did not draw the lines on maps,
nor whisper strategies in darkened rooms,
yet their lives unravel like old cloth
under the weight of decisions made afar.

The planners sip their coffee in gilded halls,
speaking of targets,
of victories counted in nameless numbers.
They do not hear the wailing,
do not taste the ash.

A young boy picks through rubble,
searching for his sister's doll,
while across the sea,
the architects of ruin sleep soundly,
unmarked by the war they waged.

History will forget the names of the fallen,
but the planners' statues will stand tall,
their faces carved in stone,
their hands bloodless.

And so, the innocent bear the cost,
their bodies the ledger,
their pain the ink.
The war ends,
but for them, it never truly does.