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Best Poems Written by Madison Power

Below are the all-time best Madison Power poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Ballad Of Her Moonlit Tune

"The stars beckoned her song to reach the crescent moon"

In a quiet glade where the willows weep,
And fireflies dance as the world finds sleep,
A girl with cheeks like a rosy bloom
Would sing to the stars by the silver moon.

Her hair was long, like a raven’s flight,
It shimmered soft in the hush of night.
Her skin was pale as the lily’s grace,
And love lit warm in her round-cheeked face.

Though others stared, she never knew
That beauty comes in more than view.
Her voice, a bell so soft and pure,
Could stir the hearts of rich and poor.

The stars beckoned her song to reach the crescent moon,
They shimmered brighter with each gentle tune.
The breeze would hush to hear her sing,
And owls would hush mid ghostly wing.

She sang of dreams that never tire,
Of humble hearts and secret fire,
Of love not bought, of skies not torn,
Of joy in dusk and peace in morn.

Each night she stood by the mossy stone,
And though she stood so oft alone,
The heavens heard her lullaby
And wept sweet tears across the sky.

One night, the moon, in gentle swoon,
Slid lower just to catch her tune.
It kissed her face with argent light,
And held her song in velvet night.

And from that hour, the woods would say—
Though she grew old and passed away—
That if you walk where she once stood,
You'll hear her song drift through the wood.

So if you find your soul in gloom,
Let music rise and sorrow swoon—
For the stars still beckon every tune
To dance its way to the crescent moon.

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clean and cut open

sober now,
and every second screams louder than the last.
the silence i begged for
now drips like acid through my spine.

when i was high, 
the world floated —
hazy, dull-edged, 
a soft lie i could breathe in.
without choking on memory.
without shaking from truth.

but now i wake up
to light too sharp for eyes that have seen too much,
and sleep with shadows that whisper
every name i try to forget.

they say this is healing.
they say pain is proof i'm alive.
but if this is life — 
raw, bleeding,
a wound i carry like a badge —
then maybe i liked dying better.

i miss the numbness.
i miss the nothing.
it was kinder
than this endless parade
of remembering 
everything
i ever did
just to feel okay.

Details | Madison Power Poem

Letter To The Fallen

"Memories buried in the wavering wash of time."

I write you now with trembling hand,
The ink runs like the river sand,
Where once we laughed, side by side—
Now silence stands where you had died.

Your dog tags hang from rusted steel,
A ghost’s reminder I still feel.
Your voice just echoes in my chest,
A joke, a shout, your final rest.

We stormed the gates, we cursed the sky,
Shared cigarettes and questioned why
We made it home, but not as whole—
A folded flag, a shattered soul.

The days blur past, like boots in mud,
But time can’t rinse away your blood.
You haunt the dawn, the mess hall haze,
Each mile I march, each prayer I phrase.

"Memories buried in the wavering wash of time,"
But I still hear your voice in mine.
Sometimes I dream we're back again,
You throw a grin, my closest friend.

I held your hand as you grew cold,
So many truths I never told.
The guilt, it clings like desert dust,
And in my chest, that ache won't rust.

But here's the part I need to say,
The part that helps me breathe today:
I’ll live the life you couldn’t claim,
I'll light the dark that knew your name.

Each morning now, I stand and shave,
Salute the mirror, not the grave.
Your memory fuels each breath I take,
A sacred debt I won't forsake.

So rest, old friend. Your war is done.
I’ll carry both our shadows in the sun.
And when the silence takes my time,
We’ll meet again, past blood and grime.

Till then, your name's my marching song—
In heart and boots, I carry on.

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If You Are Love

O God of blistered stars and silence,
I crawl to You with blood beneath my nails—
Not theirs, my own.
I tore at shame like bark from skin,
But it rooted deeper still.

Do You see me now?
A cathedral of cracked marrow,
Where hallelujahs rot before they bloom—
I cannot pray without trembling.

The night — I dare not name it —
Stitched its name into my bones.
I wore it like a second skin,
And called it mine.
Why?
Why did I whisper yes to the no
That echoed only inside?

Forgive the crooked way I carry blame.
I molded sin from what was taken,
Painted scarlet where there should be soot.
I thought I wept enough,
You might call it penance.

But still I hear the saints and their eyes.

Was I not made in Your image?
Then why do I only see cracks
When I look through Your glass?

Tell me—
Can mercy reach beneath this ruin,
Past the altar of my trembling,
Where I laid down innocence
Like a lamb too small for fire?

If You are the well,
Then I am dust pleading for rain.

If you are love—
Oh, God, if You are love—
Then reach me how to forgive
What wasn't my sin.

Break me open, if You must,
But not in wrath. In rain.
In the hush between thunder and healing.
Make me something soft again—
Something Yours.

Let me breathe without apology.
Let me stand, if not pure, then held.
Let me be more than what was done.

Please.
Even now,
I am still reaching.

Gather my ruin in Your sovereign hands.
Amen.

Details | Madison Power Poem

Crayon Box Dreams

Once, colours bloomed beneath my fingertips,
A world alive in every waxy line.
With careless joy, I painted paper ships
And skies where suns and silver moons would shine.

Each shade, a song of summers never gray,
Of laughter loud, of barefoot, grassy trails.
But now those hues have slowly slipped away,
Replaced by ticking clocks and grown-up tales.

The red of courage fades to aching rust,
And blue now weeps where wonder used to live.
What age has gained, it took with quiet trust;
A trade I made, too blind then to forgive.

Yet still I dream in crayon-coloured light,
Of days unspoiled and hearts that held me tight.

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Point Of No Return

They said the sun would rise again,
But not how red it burns at dawn—
A bleeding orb above the hills,
Where shadows march and boys are drawn.

We kissed our mothers’ hands goodbye,
The station rang with rust and steam.
Our boots were new, our hearts unscarred,
Still halfway clinging to a dream.

The sergeant’s voice was gravel-rough,
It ground the child from out our skin.
He spoke of duty, blood, and soil,
And drew the line we crossed within.

Mud clings like guilt to every heel,
A second skin of broken earth.
We carve our names in trenches deep,
And pray they’ll mark our measure's worth.

The sky is bruised with smoke and fire,
Each star now stares with hollow eyes.
The moon looks pale, ashamed to shine
On fields where innocence now lies.

I saw a man who looked like me—
His helmet split, his fingers curled.
He mouthed a name I couldn’t catch
Before he left this iron world.

And yet we charge when bugles scream,
Like leaves thrown into God’s own flame.
We hold the line for those behind,
Though none of us return the same.

At night, I write in trembling ink,
To someone I may never see.
"Dear Ma," it starts, then bleeds with truth—
Your boy is gone, but still I breathe.

This path we tread is paved in bone,
A bitter road of blackened fern.
The wind behind us whispers low;
We’ve passed the point of no return.

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Orders

War
Is loud.
But inside,
I am quiet—
Counting every breath.
Mud clings like old regrets.
Smoke writes names across the sky.
I don’t remember why we came,
Just the look in my captain’s tired eyes.
We move forward. That’s the only command.

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Red Quiet

There is snow in my wounds—
Soft, crystalline lies
Melting slow into the bruises you painted
Like frost on raw skin.
Your words,
Those lovely razors,
Cut so elegantly
I mistook the sting for silk.

You never shouted.
Not once.
You whispered ruin
Like a lullaby sung into marrow,
And I listened—
A child reaching
For warmth from a flame
That only ever wanted to burn.

You call it love—
When your silence screams into my ribs,
And I bled petals
Into the white sheet of your indifference.
A rose, you said,
Must be crushed to release its perfume.
So you crushed,
And I exhaled sweet suffering
As if it were devotion.

Your voice,
A red river on my mouth—
Syrup-thick with venom,
Yet I drink.
I drink because your cruelty tastes 
Like the only warmth I've known
In this winter of aching hearts.

Some nights,
You read me love poems between insults.
I cried, and you said
I was beautiful like that—
Ruined,
Wet-cheeked and obedient.
A canvas primed
For your next masterpiece.

And so I sleep—
Not peaceful, but numb—
On snow-stained sheets,
My lips painted
In the soft blood
Of everything I ever said.

Let them call this madness.
Let them call this tragic.
But art,
True art,
Wears pain like velvet,
And I—
I wear you.

Details | Madison Power Poem

While The Sky Still Burns

Drink deep the wine of the waking sun—
Its golden breath spills over trembling hills,
And morning, that fragile and flaring drum,
Beats wild against time’s shrinking quills.

The hour is ripe with unsung fire,
A tapestry woven from wind and flame.
Step out — no fear, no false desire —
The world does not wait, nor call your name.

The robin’s hymn is a ribbon of light,
braiding silence with a fierce refrain.
Even dew-draped leaves, kissed by night,
Gleam like emeralds in love with rain.

Why tarry beneath your own heartbeat?
Each pulse is thunder, each breath a bell.
Let not your dreams rot incomplete,
Buried in comfort’s perfumed shell.

Dance barefoot through fields unbeholden,
Where the earth aches to feel your grace.
Speak truths in tongues, both raw and golden,
Let courage rise like stars from your face.

Write poems on the walls of the dusk,
Sing lullabies to the bones of fear.
Kiss with a hunger that turns to musk,
Love like the end is always near.

For see — no prophet, no priest can bind
Tomorrow in parchment or sacred decree.
The sky may fall. The sun may blind.
You only have now to be free.

So lift your voice like a chalice to fate,
Let your soul spill over the rim of day.
While the sky still burns, and time runs late,
Be the fire that doesn’t fade away.

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Final Letter From The Trenches

Dear Ma, if this letter finds
Your gentle hands, your quiet eyes,
Knowing I have fallen where silence climbs,
Beneath a blood-rubbed, broken sky.

The wind here howls like wolves in chains,
Gnawing the bones of godless ground.
The trees wear coats of charred remains,
Their arms outstretched but never found.

Our prayers are whispered into mud,
Where poppies bloom from brothers' blood.
And every step is kissed by ghosts
Who speak in ash and rusting dust.

I held a boy last night, just ten—
In dreams of home, he called for Ben,
His dog, I think. His mouth was red. 
He looked surprised to wake up dead.

They say that war is glory's stage,
But it is just an iron cage
Where boys are fed to growling gods
With names like Duty, Pride, and Loss.

I miss the smell of Sunday bread,
Your humming while you made the bed,
The way you'd stroke my hair and say,
"Storms pass, my love— there's always May."

But May is gone, or buried deep.
I've seen her gown in tatters weep
Across a field of shattered glass
Where even stars don't dare to pass.

Tell Anna not to waste her tears—
This isn't hell, just sharpened years
That cut too soon through threadbare skin
And left the child I was within.

I kept your locket, polished gold—
A sun that warms the nights so cold—
I kissed it once, and then again,
Before the sky turned red with rain.

My chest is tight now, hard to breathe—
The sky leans in, it will not leave.
I wish your arms could hold me still,
Like when the thunder touched the hills.

And Mama, if you hear me cry
Inside the wind or nighttime sky,
Please hum that song you used to sing—
The one that made the shadows wing.

With all I am and couldn't be,
Your little boy—
Still calling for you quietly.