whispering through a crescendo
I accommodate his monolingually
always spoke prim and smoothed
commercialize me .
be impeccable or simultaneously lukewarm
never to undress again
classic
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • September 14–20, 2026)
The Way is silent,
It was not to be, nor was it not to be.
There are no questions,
Not even a word.
Never say never,
I know that I know nothing.
Being is in Becoming.
So is life.
Paradox.
So I will say these things, so I will live, as only the nonsensical can make sense of this.
The order of Light
is to experience
common Truth itself.
Language is not a perfect game —
more than the sum of things,
like moon, sky, centre, body, bed —
all the singing masters know.
Picture two lovers — wake
to hold the real world —
by body,
word by word;
Wild halos — their thought.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
For Gwen Harwood (1920–1995)
Who taught us that thought is surrounded by Light, and that Love holds the real and imagined world.
Blackout poetry extraction from the original poem —
“Thought is Surrounded by a Halo” by Australian poet Gwen Harwood (Brisbane, Queensland, Australia).
I think the language of dating tends to be intentionally overeducated, because modern romance often requires forensic attention to fragments: eye movements, direct response or response delay and strategic silence.
The term ‘boyfriend’ is a deliberate allocation of trust.
Though we kiss for control with charming nonchalance,
it’s gritty and everyday, not decorative companionship.
He’s seen my worst screenshots
On another note..
I love staying up late at morning
I have vampire tendencies
that’s my frequency
Should I start to turn in earlier
or wait for school to begin
I’m that kind of worrier
that’s the way my world spins
.
.
A song for this:
Deny by La Sécurité
You know what happens in Japanese-Americanese elections
They pronounce l’s as r’s, so with 55% of the barrots counted
CBS and ABC ahl carring it a big e _ _ _ _ _ _ n.
I lay resting in a bed of dreams,
as time slipped away.
Heavy with the world's grief,
weakness awaits me—
laziness settles in my skin,
while all around, the spirit falls still.
About this poem
Ke go amogela ka lethabo
I embrace you with joy
Go gwerana le wena my spouse
Ke go gokarela le go amogela
Ka go dumediša le go go amogela
Ke ipšina ka go kgahlwa ke lerato la gago
I delight in being enchanted
Ka go rata wena By loving you
Monya wa pelo ya ka The dew of my heart
Ke a go reta, ke a go dumediša I praise you, I greet you
Ka go tšea le go amogela By taking and accepting you
Ke go kgetha godimo ga tše dingwe
I choose you above all others
Ke go amogela ka lepotlapotla
I welcome you eagerly
Ke amogela lerato la gago
I accept your love
Ke kgetha wena o kaone fela
I choose only you, thebest of you
You still my soul
The Language of Home
Trying to memorize
the language of home,
I have become
a little blurred,
a little brown.
Loving home,
loving it too much,
I have become
a little impure,
a little torn.
I crawl,
indifferent,
trying to swallow
my own breath,
having learned
to ask for permission
even to breathe.
I now call
the Supreme Soul
Coca-Cola.
At the touch
of Coca-Cola's branch,
the sun-scorched crow
has flown away,
towards
the land of the displaced.
Shoe-polish,
Shree-polish,
heart-polish,
all smeared together,
I have chosen
not to become
the youngest,
the devoted,
or the devout,
but instead,
from the earthen pots and pans
of the Rig Veda and the sick-leaves,
from the intimacy
of the examination hall,
I have chosen
to uproot
myself.
Truth, a 5 letter word
should have more emphasis
than the 4 letter words
now having gained favor
in our language – children
use them freely, example
set by parents. F this and
F that...F n good grade son,
daughter. Don’t be late
for F n school. Listen to
what the F n priest says,
He knows F n Best. God
only has 3...fearing soon
another acceptable 4th --
I know, F this preachy write,
just more of the F n worthless
Same! I can see the next
new bible translation: Paul
accidentally spilled
the sacrament wine, and
Christ was F n irate....
S’il vous plait, Andres
Por favor, Lior
Danke Shoen, Hussein
Merci beaucoup, Lulu
Please and thank you
sound so good
For those who never use them
~ you really should!
It happens
as if stirred by some
deep prompting rising up
out of a common soul,
a voice in search of a language
to write its existence
across the pages
of a passing mind.
The soft morning light
pooling beneath hurrying feet,
the cypress trees
along the foreshore time frozen
in their wind bent posture,
the motion of waves
withering into a slow soak
up the beach -
all seem to have something
to say.
I have felt a pen press
upon my mind, struggle
to find a space free
from the cramp of my own self
on which to record
the shape and sounds
of a joy or give form
to a longing freed
from the grip of shadow.
I have felt the cry
of things trapped
in the hollows of words
like empty sea shells held
to the ear and tried faithfully
to transcribe what was said.
In my solitude I have
called out hoping
for a reply only to hear
the sound of my own pulse
punctuate a terrible silence
Written and posted by
a real poet, no ai clone --
wary of erroneous people,
fake voices on my digital
phone – fear I may be one of
the few yet writing poetry alone
without the help of
some ai, futuristic drone
letting fall synthetic hits
and misses – parrot
droppings all the same,
really, ai poetry quite morally
lame.
—Arrived & Passed On—
they school my hand where measured accents fall,
and bid each wandering syllable stay;
i listen, for their craft has weight through all
the long inheritance of word and way;
yet what arrives before the mind can name,
still warm from some unbidden inward flood,
i cannot bid it wait to earn its flame,
nor teach the wound to counterfeit its blood.
yet I claim no sovereignty of tongue:
i honour what I cannot make my own;
i hold one drop; it bears the whole sea’s song,
and let it find a heart where it is known;
let learned minds perfect their measured art—
one drop may carry all the sea to heart.
I attempted to write
another poem today
attempted
for no poem is complete
learned representative of one’s
best
each merely prelude
to hopefully an ever higher
quest --
Each poem, a tower platform
Each poem a Babel, destined
to fall short~ for each, his own
lyric god unreachable
-----------------------------------
I have attempted thousands already
Have published thousands, sharing
publicly my many, titled defeats --
There
Is that which
Cannot be
Communicated
Yet words form
And may pretend
To have broken
The code
But the code and
The words are
Already that
A tale of futility
But kinda fun..
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