Remember when they used to put toys in the bottom of cereal boxes.
I ate adult-sized bowls just to reach the treasure a bit sooner.
One time I took my stepmother's strictly forbidden shortcut.
Plunging my dirty little mitt through layers of anticipation and flakes.
Just to reach a little blue plastic pig wrapped in her plastic blanket.
Mother caught and chastised me, just shy of an 8-cylinder cry.
At least I didn't get a thrashing, and she let me keep the little blue swine.
I never did the dirty plunge again, at least not in front of the aproned scolder.
I never did collect the entire set of plastic farm animals.
Before long, I moved on to Louisville Sluggers, puppy love, and cheap beer.
Barking Madly at the Shore
The early morning wakes to find
the sun struggling above the horizon,
offering what warmth it can,
to a shivering sweep of sky
that is blue with cold.
Below, the sea whispers secrets,
playfully licking at the shoreline
while litter starts to sprint the beach
and jigsaw pieces of cloud
slowly smudge-grey the sky.
Before long, the sea has gained
a mischievous glint in its watery eye
and is barking madly at the shore
as it sends waves to froth and foam
around a finger of lighthouse.
As the day ages, the sea rhythms on
while distant ships slip and slide by
and the occasional winged seagull,
like a torn piece of white paper,
is ripped from the scene.
Eventually as a distant hand
throws darkness all around,
the lighthouse can be seen
silvering the moonless sea;
a detective on its latest case.
Ian Souter
Come Spring Season,
It's time for baseball.
That is, after getting over
The fiery March Madness.
But not so fast.
The NBA is still in session.
And would you believe that
It's June before the Finals finish?
Come late Summer,
Just before Autume,
Ready or not, it's time
For football.
Before long, when
Autumn leaves begin
To fall from trees,
It's time for basketball,
Right on the hills of the
World Series, October Classic.
Thanksgiving and Christmas
Will feast and merry us, and
Before we can conclude with
Our New Year's resolutions,
It's time for the Super Bowl.
Like Mother Nature's seasons
Flowing in and flowing out,
Such is the nature of our
Sporting seasons.
Through the heat of Summer
And the icy freezy Winter,
Seldom do we retreat.
It's simply our way of life.
It's what we do.
Oh, there's more sports,
But ...
I remember when the sun would set,
And before long, workers took their rest.
I recall when the heat would decline
And hush, but not by much.
I recollect those southern summer nights,
Especially in the rural where there was so
Little light and where kids thrilled themselves
With the sight of lightning bugs.
There are things I wish that I could forget.
We never forgot to stay close to home to
Avoid the southern summer fright, because
Some sad souls were not very bright.
My dear, like the fragrant bloom, thou art health
and beauty to my soul, and blood to my
dry veins and starving marrow such free wealth
of life which for joy grateful eyes do cry.
Beloved, though far removed from me in years,
and distant in miles, thou art near in heart;
so, love is here and sorrow disappears,
for in spirit we're never far apart.
But though I'm exalted by your rare mind,
and find comfort in your warm words of love,
for which I treasure and so must remind
myself, that we shall always rise above.
Though I am weak, for thee I shall be strong,
my love, for we will triumph before long.
We had met, but I knew him only casually.
I saw him at a center for senior citizen activity.
Presently, his quietness aroused my curiosity.
Till then, he had lived a life of prosperity and
Never had to accept charity, but he was now
Frustrated and filled with dispondacy.
And now, he was filled with anxiety because
He was being blessed with longevity that
Before long, could land him in poverty.
Most would be pleased to have a long life and
Would live it with contentment most happily.
However, it seemed that this aged one would
Prefer a shorter lifespan if a longer life required
Too much sacrifice.
Never had I met one quite like that man, but
I was quick to show concern and understand.
I was honored to be given an opportunity to
Reach out to him with some reasuring words.
'You don't write because you want to say something,
you write because you have something to say '
Quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald
I will sit
at my desk to write.
I will find
one or two
words to scribe on some paper,
then, I shall begin.
The words come
along with my thoughts.
Before long
I create
another poem or prose,
to share with others.
I am sure
I am not alone.
I see you
think the same,
for we writers cannot stop.
This is our passion!
On the shoreline,
I was built
A lighthouse.
Before I could learn
The pattern of the tides
That would wash away
My fresh coat of paint.
When night falls,
The horizon shifts
From its warming farewell
To an unsettling darkness,
Hiding everything in sight.
As the lighthouse,
Built with a lantern
Bright as a thousand suns,
It became my responsibility,
To guide the smaller ships
Back home to safety,
From what lurked within
The darkness coating the seas.
Then bigger ships,
Exploited what light
I could provide.
Before long,
Everyone gathered in the glow
From my burning lantern,
Taking advantage of the second daylight,
Making sure
They made it home
To their loved ones,
In time for a home-cooked meal.
I stayed rooted to the rocks,
Storm after storm,
Night after night.
I kept my lantern burning.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love what I do.
If those ships never returned,
Because I wasn’t there,
I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.
Still, I dream
Of one day
When the seas calm
And my light is no longer needed.
I could leave
What's left of this harbour
And finally
Light my own way.
Not on your nelly is telly better than laughs from your belly
That roar rocks you to the core before long you’ve a sore jaw
Stand up tour or panto to the fore has always worked before
Not just one more but an encore in store of many a guffaw
Pure & raw soul does soar but appreciate I’m no Shelley
Feeling down through thick and thin then best way to begin
Wriggle from a frown your mouth wiggles become a giggle
Head in a spin again after too much time with your ken & kin
Things get under your skin it’s not a sin to well crack a grin
Tipple & tucker don’t buckle me ol mucker succour to suckle
No sandwich of the knuckle nothing as pukka as a chuckle
While we all know the best denial to rile vile bile in style
A sage’s way to turn the page engage with road rage
To bewitch & beguile for a wee while is well just to smile
After a rafter of everything dafter whether grafter or drafter
Din of chagrin within a guffaw, smile, giggle, chuckle, grin
Will always win as it is shoe in the best medicine’s laughter
No illusions therein entrap—
the hush between two heartbeats speaks too plain.
Ego craving is a mousetrap.
A gap—a gape in thoughts my life couldn’t hide;
betwixt two ponderings, vacuum took no side.
There lie all worries, begging for breakthroughs,
where failure stands as bold as decent news.
When steps grow firm, they clear illusion’s threat,
for success occludes failures without sweat.
A garden: fortunes wilt in stillness of will,
even when mouths flourish with joy and thrill.
Then ego becomes the song of deceit,
with beliefs failure can’t withstand its feat.
Before long, a cry too strong to ignore
becomes the downfall life has witnessed before.
It drags pride down through shining polished board
until the mud returns what it ignored:
the taste of joy, the scent of broken clay,
the mirror that ego couldn’t keep at bay.
She sat by the edge of a resting stream,
where her reflection peered at her sadness.
She threw a stone to still its mocking glare—
the ripples spread and swept away her image,
as if eager to dissolve her gloom in obscurity.
Before long, the current found her face again.
She watched it mirror her stare once more,
and though torment gripped her trembling face,
her tears rolled—coins sinking into depth.
The birds ceased their songs; the frogs stopped their croaks.
Their silence ached her head, throbbed her chest,
till her skull seemed to burst with anguish—
yet she watched as fry darted in the stream.
The salt-white path of her tears had crusted dry,
begging weary glands for more to cleanse them,
to join those the stream had already swallowed,
as if its waters were made brackish by her tears.
Though soiled by the drops it drank before,
it still awaited more drops of her misery,
polishing its mirror to reflect her sadness once more—
while her body stayed pressed to the sand by its bank,
till daylight waned and twilight veiled the sky.
When we picked up our grandson
From sleepaway camp,
A few new expressions
Had managed to stamp
Themselves on his psyche –
6-7 was one,
Its sing-songy rhythm
A part of the fun.
He tried to explain it –
I couldn’t quite get it.
It stuck in my head, though;
I couldn’t forget it.
It’s an internet meme,
Maybe based on a song.
If you Google it, you’ll be
Confused before long.
For my grandson’s 12th birthday
I stitched up a gift
Of 6-7 in felt;
His reaction was swift.
He laughed and I knew
My idea was a smash,
But he pointed out, “Nana,
You don’t need the dash.”
I guess I’m not hip to
The trends of today.
Still, my grandson will teach me
And that is okay.
The bubble is bound to burst
before long; therefore at least
A gondola you should opt for
For letting loose your emotions
Loaded with almost all oceans
Curved currents and foams
Potential fear amidst delight
and excitement; your sights
blurred by beauty that roams
along the edges of the figure
Flooding your whole existence
Mopping off all distance
Of time and space in braincase
Only the embrace, you write
and replace, the lips and face
In cloud base and fireplace
In cold case and in a horse race
Mewing wooing cooing
Howling, growling, prowling.
Doing, undoing and redoing
Life is never a straight line
Bland canned and flatland
It's waist band and dreamland
Fascinating woodland
Crescent and fluorescent
Incessantly effervescent
So no monochrome of woe
No saying always not and no
Instead, the bugle of gusto
In the meadow with a rainbow
Always the wonderful gun
In your lovely hair-bun
___________________
18 September 2025
The heat still controls,
But it's bound to fold.
It's been a long hot summer,
One I'll long remember.
But summer is growing old
And before long, its bell will toll.
But there's nothing to fear.
Autumn is very near.
Hurricanes may be hard to bare.
But we must do our best to prepare.
Even now, the trees are preparing.
And the leaves are anticipating.
Nature will always take its twists and turns
And challenge us with new things to learn
And Autumn will always display her beauty
Which is her divinely appointed duty.
hovering in limbo
ideas strewn about
lacking sense or reason
images suspended in mid air
notions and impressions
floating and colliding
vague feelings in the raw
idly drifting meet their match
simmering a stance
before long ...
thoughts are forming notions
interpreting and framing
and a plan's laid out for action
AP: 3rd place 2025
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