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POETRY COLLECTION
A Place to Share Poetry
We encourage everyone to contribute to our growing collection of poetry written by all different kinds of people from all over the world. All poems submitted will be published.
Welcome to Across The Verse: A Place to Share Poetry!
Author: This Could Be You!
Author: J. William Zoldak from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: H. LaBudde from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: H. LaBudde from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: J. William Zoldak from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: H. LaBudde from Massachusetts, U.S.
ORANGE JUICE KISS
I soft receive your orange juice kiss
Impressed upon my cheek … impressed upon my memory too (no words you chose to speak).
I mumbled out, “I love you”, with hope not to annoy; you’re six but nearly seven (you clearly are “all boy”).
Your breakfast all consumed now …mouth crosses length of sleeve; you scooter down our litt
ORANGE JUICE KISS
I soft receive your orange juice kiss
Impressed upon my cheek … impressed upon my memory too (no words you chose to speak).
I mumbled out, “I love you”, with hope not to annoy; you’re six but nearly seven (you clearly are “all boy”).
Your breakfast all consumed now …mouth crosses length of sleeve; you scooter down our little street, to catch your bus, to leave.
Orange juice spot has dried now, I touch it just to see. Tomorrow morning I’ll hope to get a cranberry one with tea.
Author: J. William Zoldak from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: J. William Zoldak from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: J. William Zoldak from Massachusetts, U.S.
Everyday Miracles
Raindrops on a blade of grass
North flying birds as they pass.
A spring fawn – a budding tree
White clover - a honeybee.
Everyday Miracles that we see.
A laughing brook running by
The fireflies in the sky
Milkweed pods and chirping birds.
Hooting owls – deer in herds
Everyday Miracles without words
Angel shapes made in the snow,
Br
Everyday Miracles
Raindrops on a blade of grass
North flying birds as they pass.
A spring fawn – a budding tree
White clover - a honeybee.
Everyday Miracles that we see.
A laughing brook running by
The fireflies in the sky
Milkweed pods and chirping birds.
Hooting owls – deer in herds
Everyday Miracles without words
Angel shapes made in the snow,
Bright stars and a moon aglow.
Laughing child – adoring gaze
Warming firers all a blaze
Everyday Miracles that we praise.
A wood smoke scent in the air
Or fresh cut hay laying there.
Homemade cookies – baked fresh bread,
Fragrant roses in a bed
Everyday Miracles as was said.
Miracles are everywhere.
You can find them if you dare.
To open your eye and see
The things nature brings for free,
Heavenly gifts to you and me.
Author: Jennifer Drummond from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Dr. John X. Wang from Switzerland, Austria & U.S.
Author: J. William Zoldak from Massachusetts, U.S.
There Comes A Time
There comes a moment.
Perhaps on a neighborhood walk, you realize it’s warm enough to take off your jacket.
Perhaps one evening under a luminous moon, with water a mirror for the heavens, you hear the peepers roaring to life.
Or one morning, sitting in a sunny patch of your worn out sofa, looking across the lawn and you
There Comes A Time
There comes a moment.
Perhaps on a neighborhood walk, you realize it’s warm enough to take off your jacket.
Perhaps one evening under a luminous moon, with water a mirror for the heavens, you hear the peepers roaring to life.
Or one morning, sitting in a sunny patch of your worn out sofa, looking across the lawn and you see hues of green, where yesterday was mid-March frozen.
Maybe, it was last Tuesday with the flip of a page, a new month and what was
has lost its grip - just a bit, just enough - to let in a new you.
Once in a stained-glass church, with a chorus of voices, I soared like glorious freedom;
Once on a concrete bench, with a child sick, I sat grounded, like laborious love.
When this moment comes and whispers to you,
Open-handed, open-hearted, let it speak.
The world is greener now than yesterday.
Author: Dr. John X. Wang from Switzerland, Austria & U.S.
Author: Dr. John X. Wang from Switzerland, Austria & U.S.
Author: Dr. John X. Wang from Switzerland, Austria & U.S.
Crossing with Blue Moonlight
Are you drunken
with Sonata Moonlight
on the Beautiful Blue Danube?
Do you remember the blueberry hill?”
I forget
because it’s decades ago.
Can you bring me a piece of melody
and a cup of Jasmine tea?
“Are you drunken
with Aare water
under the moonlit dark blue sky?
Do you remember the Blues Trail?”
I forget
because it’s o
Crossing with Blue Moonlight
Are you drunken
with Sonata Moonlight
on the Beautiful Blue Danube?
Do you remember the blueberry hill?”
I forget
because it’s decades ago.
Can you bring me a piece of melody
and a cup of Jasmine tea?
“Are you drunken
with Aare water
under the moonlit dark blue sky?
Do you remember the Blues Trail?”
I forget
because it’s oceans away.
Can you bring me a piece of melody
and streams of whiskey?
“Are you drunken
with the turbulent maelstrom
over the river of Amazon?
Do you remember the crossroads
stretching under the dark blue sky?
Do you remember the peaceful country roads
crossing with blue moonlight?
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Author: Michelle A. Thibeault from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Dr. John X. Wang from Switzerland, Austria & U.S.
Author: Dr. John X. Wang from Switzerland, Austria & U.S.
Dappled Light
Dappled sunlight filters through,
Touching softly, half-bright hues—
Quieting the noise inside,
Ushering restless thoughts aside.
Golden rays dance on the floor,
Shifting patterns evermore,
Stilling chaos in my mind
As windswept leaves their branches bind.
Such pure wonder in this sight
Catches more than passing light—
In these moments, stillness grows,
Where the heart finds sweet repose.
Author: Susan Gabriel from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Susan Gabriel from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Susan Gabriel from Massachusetts, U.S.
Forest of the Sixth Sense
(Natural Reflections, A Year in the Woods)
There, dappled light is a chameleon
weaving glint and dark
into an undulating tapestry.
There, each sense intensifies
nothing escapes
it only transmutes
So that air has the power of song
bird cries are floating fragrances
wild grass tastes of rainwater
trees are watchful guardians
and colours assume the touch of healing.
Author: Daniel Sklar from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Susan Gabriel from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Susan Gabriel from Massachusetts, U.S.
Of Time and the Beauty Contest
Candace won a beauty contest
on Salisbury Beach in 1952.
Now, Bill takes her
out on summer nights
to the gazebo in Patton park.
One July night is like
the summer night she won
the beauty contest.
Now her hair is thick and white
and sticking out.
She doesn’t know
who she is.
She doesn’t know
who Bill is, like it was
before
Of Time and the Beauty Contest
Candace won a beauty contest
on Salisbury Beach in 1952.
Now, Bill takes her
out on summer nights
to the gazebo in Patton park.
One July night is like
the summer night she won
the beauty contest.
Now her hair is thick and white
and sticking out.
She doesn’t know
who she is.
She doesn’t know
who Bill is, like it was
before she met him
the summer she won
the beauty contest.
Her granddaughter won
the same contest in 2002,
the same square jaw.
Candace doesn’t know
her granddaughter anymore.
Candace smiles and waves
to the neighbors and asks,
“How’s your cat?”
Bill holds her hand
pulling her along
on the way to
the gazebo.
She stops and points
to a bright star,
the same one she saw
the night she won
the beauty contest.
Author: Kate Doyon from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Susan Gabriel from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Kate Doyon from Massachusetts, U.S.
Growing Season
A chill is still in the air but the days are notably longer.
Car windows roll down with ambition
Then back up with a shudder.
Students forget their assignments
But remember to apply self tanner the night before.
Seed catalogues litter my dining room table,
Mixing with the papers I intend to grade.
Frost covers the lawn each mornin
Growing Season
A chill is still in the air but the days are notably longer.
Car windows roll down with ambition
Then back up with a shudder.
Students forget their assignments
But remember to apply self tanner the night before.
Seed catalogues litter my dining room table,
Mixing with the papers I intend to grade.
Frost covers the lawn each morning.
It is growing season and I have work to do.
Brought from the basement,
The UV light clicks on.
Trays filled with soft and musky soil hold no promises
But hope that the seeds from last year will still take.
They warm by the heater and drink
Water ceremoniously poured each morning.
It is growing season and I have work to do.
Overnight field trips and projects abound.
My classroom is a treasure chest
Of snow boots, glue sticks, text books, and snack wrappers.
Early sun casts kaleidoscopic shimmers,
Waking blades of grass holding dew as its canvas.
The garden is turned and barrels of fresh soil are wheeled up the hill
In preparation for baby leaves and stems
Poking their tiny heads up to the surface.
Buds on trees join the scene,
Emerging and inspiring the birds to sing.
It is growing season and I have work to do.
Students shift in their seats, ready for a break.
The lemon loaf in the teacher’s room is perfection.
Gifted from a parent, it is sweet and tangy.
The report cards I write are only the tip of the teaching iceberg.
The soil outside has reached the right temperature.
Gingerly the seedlings are removed from their trays.
Spindly roots dangle in the air before being lowered into the earth.
They are so trusting.
Hooked up and turned on, the green rubber hose sputters its first water of the year.
Then sprinkles on the new life before it.
Trees are full,
Birds are nested,
The lawn is ready to be mowed.
It is growing season and I have work to do.
Structured days shift to relaxed freedom and self-reflection.
Card games, camping in the backyard, roasting marshmallows over the crackling fire pit,
Reading romance in the purple hammock, birthday toasts,
All witnessed by the garden.
Hand watering only at dusk and at dawn,
Weed pulling, inspection for pests, and excited anticipation for vegetables
Fill the hours.
It is growing season and I have work to do.
Chilly nights return,
Schedules are booked with nearly neglected appointments and back to school meetings.
Lettuce, kale, and beans are the first to be harvested
As replacement crops are nurtured indoors.
The grass is ready to be cut.
I review my syllabus, reminiscent of the slow mornings that would roll into sun-kissed afternoons.
Trees offer shade but there is no time to enjoy it.
Yellow squash, peas, and sweet peppers are ready to be harvested.
The tomatoes will soon make their grand entrance.
It is growing season and I have work to do.
Before the beds are put to rest,
Beets, corn, and pumpkins are picked.
Lingering greens are washed and placed in bags for preservation.
With a flourish of color the maple and oak release their leaves.
One final mow then the lawn receives my rake massage.
The family dog bounds through the piles
As birds start their journey south.
Lessons must be taught.
Bills must be paid.
Bedtime must be adhered to.
Growing season is over and I have work to do.
Author: Paul Day from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Ashley Laubinger from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Kate Doyon from Massachusetts, U.S.
Evening Tide
I tossed a shell into the sea
where it was born to die.
I waved it home,
then walked the beach
before the evening tide.
And when my steps
shall be erased,
I pray remember me:
Speak out my name,
good pilgrim mine,
against the sounding sea.
Author: Ashley Laubinger from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Ashley Laubinger from Massachusetts, U.S.
Author: Ashley Laubinger from Massachusetts, U.S.
The Oath of the Inadequate
The Old Salt piqued an interest,
letting I, a landlubber, be his right hand,
not accepting that my naivety would inevitably be banned.
I serve the commands, an oath I have sworn,
tending to the captain, avoiding what others warn.
They say what he has seen has made him mean,
but since infancy his soul belonged wi
The Oath of the Inadequate
The Old Salt piqued an interest,
letting I, a landlubber, be his right hand,
not accepting that my naivety would inevitably be banned.
I serve the commands, an oath I have sworn,
tending to the captain, avoiding what others warn.
They say what he has seen has made him mean,
but since infancy his soul belonged with the cold-blooded brutes of the marine.
At twilight I batten down the hatches,
as his words yesterday left hidden scratches.
I wake to the tempest my nerves anticipated,
while his eyes slightly squint and look at me irritated.
My bloody, perishing hold,
feels the chains slicing my skin.
His stance persists, still navigating with eyes nailed to the sea,
as he hears me collapsing and tumbling off of my feet.
My bones meet the wood-rotted plank,
while my eyes trail to his lily-livered shape.
At each angle I am caught between the devil and the deep blue sea,
I can either renege my vows or further devastate me.
I come to my conclusion as I stare,
your requital would have been necessary for me to solemnly swear.
I allow the roaring ocean to swallow me,
releasing me from your false guarantee.
But, as the sea engulfs my frame,
I wish the silence could have been yours to blame,
and not the paralyzing waters that I had then became.