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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Written: January 14, 2026, for contest sponsored by Karen Jones ************ In this tristful age of waning meaning, acrid winds rise from the world’s declivity, We listen for a softer timbre, a tone like cowslips glowing gold in dusk’s blue hush— and still, peace hums beneath the din The air grows redolent with rancor, with hostile murmurs and contentious tongues, Yet somewhere a winsome, limpid whisper threads through the static like warm violet light— and still, peace hums beneath the din We wander through conundrum and quixotry, our thoughts a woolgathering drift of smoke, our hearts a chatoyant flicker caught between shadow and ember— and still, peace hums beneath the din Two stanzas mirror each other now: one for the mind, one for the marrow— mind seeking cogent clarity, marrow craving gentler gravity— and still, peace hums beneath the din We meet in the middle, where synchronicity feels like scent-turned-sound, like a golden chord glowing on the tongue, like touch that tastes of morning rain— and still, peace hums beneath the din Peace is no barbaric banquet, no officious promise wrapped in parody; It is an evanescent shimmer yonder, a quiet halcyon pulse beneath our stolid fear— and still, peace hums beneath the din And when the night grows thick as ink, when even hope feels fake and thin, peace rises—slow, buttery, bright— a lantern of molten saffron held in the trembling hands of dawn. And still, peace hums beneath the din.
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