Notes About The Poem
5 May 2026
For the MINGLE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Listen to poem:
Mingle
There is a pleasure in the wayward wood;
unmapped, where none have been or stood;
To revel in a reckless romp on a rampant shore.
To mingle with the Universe, with chaos in its core.
Please sir! Shake me, but never a stir.
Keep my flavors apart, avoid the blended blur;
for the glass remembers what has passed before,
and wants to shake me up, for once and ever more.
Mingling begins when friends refuse
to dance together, or to cuddle or schmooze.
The fracture hums, the doorway is left ajar,
inviting others in to outshine the star.
The sacred shun, while the silly can mix so readily,
wanting to see, and be seen, out there so steadily;
joining in, and dancing with everyone,
full of verve and fervor, playing in the sun.
Mingling loosens the taut, tense edges of self,
no longer locked away like bookends on a shelf.
We find that joining in does not split us apart,
but twines the threads of inclusion around the heart.
Shaken and softly poured, but never stirred,
the self converges, confluent; it's never blurred.
Becoming a course, and an unique ingredient,
that has a discrete taste, immediate and expedient.
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