Strophe
O silent art, where hands weave tales in air,
No voice to guide, yet stories leap to sight.
A flailing arm, a leap, a comic stare,
The room erupts in guesses, wild and bright.
Is it a bird? A king? A fleeting mime?
Each gesture carves a riddle, swift and sly,
The player’s craft a spark in pantomime,
Igniting laughter ‘neath the evening sky.
Antistrophe
The circle hums, each face alight with glee,
As clues unfold in twists of limb and grin.
A charade’s spell binds friends in unity,
No word is spoke, yet all the heart’s within.
The clock ticks soft, but time forgets its pace,
While players dance their hints with fervent zeal.
From book to beast, each act a bold embrace,
The silent stage where joy becomes the real.
Epode
O game of wit, where silence speaks so loud,
You draw us close, a tribe of playful souls.
Each guess a thread, each laugh a woven shroud,
To bind the night in memory’s gentle folds.
No prize but mirth, no goal but shared delight,
Charades, you reign in gesture’s fleeting flight.
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Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: April 10th, 2026 07:54
- Comment from author about the poem: Just a poem about charades
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: Sports Poetry.
Offline)
Comments2
Matthew, this is vibrant from the first stanza…there’s an energy here that feels alive and communal. You capture that shared excitement without overplaying it, and it carries all the way through. It feels like being in the room. Well done! 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
This wording is so classic in format it speaks from a different level. So nicely conceived it in its formality leaves the reader most comfortable
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