Line of inquiry:
“joy, empathy, compassion
on an upward arc
an effervescence eternal
causes bliss ignition to start” Unseeking Seeker
_______________________
Purity is dissolution complete
subsequent to passing every octave
spirit within spirit resting blissed sweet
peaceable compassion but concoctive
Through life's craving roses or fearful thorns
empathy, forgiveness remain a must
to tread challenging course blithe or forlorn
fortitude points luminary bow just
Above us arc stretches calling our name
irrepressibly chaste serene its zest
sorrows, anxiety, goals mere mind games
transcendent patient is Beloved’s nest
Reverent spirit willing with reason
travels curve in own orchestral season ~
________________________________
5th Placement : Premier Contest
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
May ‘26
Line of Inquiry:
“joy, empathy, compassion
on an upward arc
an effervescence eternal
causes bliss ignition to start” - Unseeking Seeker
a nightjar sang in ecstasy
its haunting melody reaching me
a kindred spirit in its reticence
due to our unassuming countenance
when love found me by the ceil blue stream
that wended among harsh words of the past
it was more than just a lifeline
to heal my bruised spirit
I lifted my head to the warmth of his words
as their caresses washed away my insecurities
under the bridal arch we promised fidelity
before the sun had set
we keep our bodies in layers,
like a river keeps its bed.
this surface , this inked architecture,
is but a trellis
for a deeper growth.
I am watching the transparent version of you
hover, like a cloud in a glass house.
you bend , the light showing
the phantom trace of your spine,
the clear, unhurried arc of your neck.
you look back at yourself--
the other you,
the one with skin,
etched with patterns and circles,
a map of all that has been held.
is this how you decide which face to wear?
one of a girl,
another of an ancient man,
a memory ghost waiting to be fed.
at the periphery,
your hands drift like smoke,
almost meeting.
one with fingerprints and geometric lines,
and one that is just a gesture.
a humming-bird on a single thread-
an impossible physics--
is being fed or led,
and it does not know the difference.
we exist between this solid,
pattern-matched bone
and the desire to be nothing but the light
that passes through.
the body is the first mask,
and the first mirror.
May calm descend where restless hearts reside
And voices rise in harmony not strife
Let mercy guide the steps of every side
And sow the seeds of peace throughout our life
as thoughts and ideas
MELDED
and experiences
define the perimeters
so my expectations
took form
to shape my decisions
GLISTENING
like oil on water –
a kaleidoscope
of possibilities …
when memories
S W I R L
finding a new truth –
my epiphany
flowing over
river s.t.o.n.e.s
worn smooth
by norms
yet
glistening with f l u I d d a w n s …
GATHERING
the past
in a m…i…s…t…y shawl
it comforts the future –
PROPITIATING
twilight sprites
discarding a false dusk …
guided by the light of iNyanga*
we define ourselves
amongst the many dawns
we shape
revealing truth…
. e.x.p.l.o.d.i.n.g!
prime colours—
yellow thrown in for good measure—
call us to focus
on what is possible –
not only today
but in the future …
even the (w)(h)(i)(s)(p)(e)(r)
of Lady Crackers
alert us to the
VALIDITY
of the quieter Voice
as ego SHOUTS!!!
but wisdom w h i s p e r s
at the s!tr!o!k!e!
of midnight
sheet lightning heralded in the
NEW YEAR—
rain held off
till we had our say …
nothing needs to be shouted
from the roof tops
to make an impact
on someone else’s
LIFE
as I whisper:
‘i love you’
(“The Heart of It #4”, 2007, original oil)
(for Erika)
Yesterday you faced a congregation
That filled a stadium
And a hundred million homes
Shattered yet resurrected
Burned and reborn like a phoenix
And as we watched
Our hearts also broken
And needing to mend
You rose to the occasion
Bright, fierce, like a modern Joan of Arc
Armored and ready for crusade
Willing to show your broken heart
And the turning point of its healing
Through forgiveness
Yet all the time
Looking here and there
For threats and prey
With the eyes of a hawk
Hell bent on caring for its young
Young which in the moment
Included us all.
(9/22/25)
A fine face is a mirror, A good smile is its arc, Courage is its armour, Emotion is its architect
MAID OF ORLÉANS
Poem written for and submitted to “Myth and Memory” Poetry Contest, Vanya Evangeline, sponsor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A warrior saint came from the plains of rural France,
a beautiful maiden named Joan, dressed in simple clothes,
not of noble lineage, but of modest beginnings
her faith unmatched.
Shielded by heavenly whispers,
she took up a religious cause~
mounted on horseback, brandishing God’s mighty saber,
she fought for her country in the name of the Lord.
Unscathed from battle she emerged,
waving her banner of courage throughout the land,
but treason and betrayal
would one day bring her untimely end.
Alone she stood in the court of politicians,
falsely accused and forsaken; yet,
in the face of pain, Joan’s faith and resolve
would not be contained, her spirit and fortitude remained.
The humble shepherdess warrior, was bound to a stake
her body consumed by fire, her valor inspirational.
This humble warrior saint, later canonized and martyred,
continues to embolden and enthrall.
Pope Joan and Joan of Arc
Mysterious women
Both known
For their parts
For hundreds of years
Hidden by history
But time would reveal
What some would not let be
Women dressed like men
Having Divine reason
Chosen by God
Each in her season
The Thirteenth and Fourteenth centuries
Is where each lived
Did one know the other
Or was another life lived
Saint Hood and disgrace
Would divide
Their purpose in life
In which the one lied
The other a warrior
Undisguised
Making France what it is
Though a martyr died
History still hides
What men would divide
Why was it disgrace
For a woman in that place
But the two yet different
Are still the same
What they did back then
Has the same name
We now ask the question
Why a Saint and the other a shame
We now look to God
Who has given it a name
fall down, up again —
smooth stone skips across the pond
each strike rings louder
on its own trajectory
vaulting bouncing once again
bamboo bends in wind
its defiance scars its skin
but it sways unbowed
dancing with rhythm resilient
on seesaw swinging wide ride
taste ash on my tongue
before the fire sets ablaze
to embrace failure
in bread of my own making
kneading loaves for noble rise
There’s beauty in imagining great things;
It lights our dark future with hope-filled dreams ~
Visions of peasants ordained to be kings,
And plebeians crowned as queens, so it seems.
It charts dream paths lit by elegant beams.
Imagination hears each scarecrow's groans;
It squeezes water from dry desert stones.
It carves deep oceans in hot desert sand,
Lifting us from known realms to worlds unknown,
Where minds may wander due to no command.
Imagination lends us its safe wings,
So we can soar toward futures we choose,
To fill our life with hopes and precious things;
Though striking gold is never a mere cruise,
Nor are the lily-livered crowned as kings.
Sweat would streak our face and our skin would bruise,
Our legs may throb and swell with insects' stings;
It's for our future that we pay the dues —
We'll patch our hurts with plasters, cloth, and slings,
On great hopes, our imagination clings.
It’s real hopes that imagination brings,
With peace of mind when reason reigns supreme,
With thoughts that glide without the need for wings—
Yet sometimes birth false hopes no truth redeems.
And dreams may fade like echoes in a stream.
blinkered by formal training
counting bright abacus beads of syllables
mindful not to step on cracks—
rhythm is everything
the audience c h e e r s !!!
the runner-up jeers—
maybe next time the nexus of …
the bows and brasses displayed
along with my bruises
an abacus of pearls
c.a.s.t
on
w a t e r
that drowns out the h-o-o-f-b-e-a-t-s of
a P O U N D I N G heart
a trace of desire
slated at the font
of knowledge
concurrent with my past
laurels
I bow to your discerning palate—
you clap for
REPETITION
repetition
r e p e t i t i o n
but I do not rest
unlike Keats
my NAME
is not
writ in
w a t e r …
C-aring
H-earts
A-re
R-eally
L-ovely,
E-mbracing
N-eedy,
E-conomically
P-oor,
A-nd
C-rushed
H-umanity,
E-ven
C-ountry's
O-ppressed
©bfa052525
Monocrostic (Birthday of Charlene D. Pacheco)
my psychic energy
[contained]
like a Matryoshka doll—
chafing for release … to see the light
beyond mere existence
to flow freely
unbound
by constraints
the Victoria Island of Life:
an island in a lake
on an island in a lake
on an island
soaring over the pitfalls of Life
gaining speed with the taste of f r e e d o m —
indispersed echoes
r i p p l i n g
within silence …
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