Written: September 21, 2026, not for contest
**********
What alchemy resides within the heart,
Where every pulse can tincture blood with hue—
Now umbered by wounds of grief's old art,
Now aureate beneath a love made new.
It hoards its red summers, violet nights,
Then bleaches sorrow into winter-white;
A crystal turning grief to fractured lights,
A stained-glass soul transfigured by the night.
Some days it wears the ochre robe of doubt,
Some days the cobalt vestment of despair;
Yet dawn may coax the buried roses out
And scatter molten amber through the air.
For hearts, like skies, are never one fixed blue;
They darken, blaze, and bloom—and start anew.
tumbleweeds blowing
across the wide-breathing dunes
sunlight bleaches time
poem written for an online poetry contest in response to the above image
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The clock’s hands carve circles
into the air, but time
does not move.
I sit at the edge of a chair
that remembers the shape
of someone else’s body.
Outside, a car engine stutters,
then dies~
not mine.
The phone is a black
mirror. I stare
until my face dissolves.
A fly lands on my wrist,
its legs like tiny prayers,
but I do not flinch.
The sun bleaches the curtains
white. Shadows grow teeth.
Still, nothing arrives.
Somewhere, a train is late.
Somewhere, a door stays shut.
Here, I become the waiting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
cold silver disc
above stripped maple limbs—
night’s sharp exhale.
foxes trace frost
through brittle husks of corn.
field mice freeze.
your light bleaches
every hollow, spills
across stone.
no warmth left here,
just the owl’s call
and wind’s teeth.
harvest done.
earth sleeps hard
beneath you.
The bark peels back like old skin—
Mine, yours, the cinnamon scrolls
Of what we shed to live. August
Bleaches the world to bone, the bark’s faint spice
Rising in the noon glare,
Heat tasting of salt and sand. And still this Crape crowns
Itself with Myrtle fire. Still—
I cannot explain what breaks in me. Still I press my cheek
Against its flaking flesh, feel
The pulse beneath—magenta,
White, pink, the deep red
Of what I've never
Bled for anyone.
Each blossom a small fist
Opening with the muted pop
Of summer rain on dry earth. Each petal, tissue-thin
As the lies I've told myself
About enduring. The Eastern Shore sun
Has made this tree what survival
Looks like: stubborn—
Beautiful, built for the burning
Seasons that strip us
To what we are. Winter comes,
And I am learning
How to be naked—
These mottled limbs
My teachers, conductors' hands
Mid-gesture, never finished
With their fierce music
Of staying alive. Of reaching
Up through the killing
Cold, brittle air ringing
With the clink of frozen twigs toward something
Green promises I cannot fathom—yet still I know
Lives in the light returning.
Summer brings strong sunshine for the strong,
but what happens when its tread
falls disinterestedly upon the weak?
Behold they have become silent,
the sky bleaches bones
and does not look backward
to what crumbles behind it.
Moon rises surprised,
eschews its pocked face,
caught in early glare
of sun in bleaches
awaiting its call.
A starlet usurped!
She plasters it on thick
Bleaches ,curls and glues
Draws on and colours in
Products galore she does use
After hours of beautification
She squeezes into a tiny short dress
Huge breasticles on display
Bum cheeks peeking out to impress
Now for the selfie photo shoot
Complete with sexy poses and pout
She is finally ready to leave
Her only destination McDonalds drive through and out!!
Shines
the darkness
in
ghostly hints...
Shine artificial
substances
pretended
to be gold...
Shine
the fake
bleaches
politicians...
Shines
the real shine
of the star...
Shines
the relevance
of the divine
truth...!
Poetry comes from the body, all of it, transmitted with marks on stone, scratches on paper, is kept alive to transcend time and space, reflects the rhythms of flesh and natural life, is intimate, is cold, is a message in a bottle, offends, comforts, and terrorizes with its blade, dispels falsehoods, guides the self to deep and personal interiors, makes music out of air and tongue, lights a single candle in the cavern, strips away the skin, bleaches the bones white, tells the true and untold stories of the heart, and for a moment, liberates that which we cannot define.
Satin Flowers
The desert is a harsh place.
Sometimes life can not keep up the pace.
Others… taunt the heat, wild things between the rocks.
They bring colors, that have no rival anywhere.
Red flame, blue sky, orange-gold…
These are the beginnings of summer, the endings of fall,
and the promise of times ahead.
In the place they lay to rest the ones I cared about,
it is quiet, and there is shade.
There is no water.
Spiny cactus rule, but trees of yellow dust touch everything…
It all feels like grains of sand in a giant time piece.
I have brought five and dime blossoms, perfumed with scent.
They will stay for a while, until the brilliant sun bleaches them white.
I will return, if I can.
I will replace them…
Then.
Marred and minced remnants pile high in a storm’s swarm
Yesterdays, hardened-soft, surface where sea’s warm…
Flotsam found, lays tales around, in frayed traces
Another shattered shell whimpers of graces
vying with the sea-swept sands: gloss embossed fades…
Ocean’s dead! These are castaways of Hades,
rid of depth, stranded upon the dry shallow
Interred where the sun bleaches out the shadows
till whitened ivory fills cavern’s echo:
enmeshed lime, crunching upon errors callow
Jazz died - June’s sun sank into august abyss…
Undertow currents ceased their torments of bliss
Nipped life, silenced like frothing foam vacuum-sealed,
kept smothered in an opaque ocean congealed…
Yard junked, Neptune’s home’s now a derelict mess
and yet he clings to the crap amassed, crownless
Right always, up to the end --------- that no return.
Death will erase the un-sunk bones when they burn
(10/3/2019: '90 Sea Ray DA 350; Discovery Park; ‘my favorite junkyard’)
brown on dusty mustard
clashes
with streaks of gray
we
drive through riding
the wave
haven't seen
a drop of rain
in days
sun bleaches boards
and bones
alike
© Whit Howland 2019
the relentless unbroken light
breathes in the fathom night
walking darkness one last time
tousled red silk strands ignite
dying strings for bleaches smite
ruthless emerges the sun
hits behind a mask of dust
window shades and layered rust
the broke back addict bent in more
buys sight unseen eyes to the floor
begging beauty to reflect
the fuel to feed hopes neglect
turns the wheel for kaleidoscope effect
colors splattered over shattered glass
spinning silver in lights finesse
pressing images in depth of design
waves engulf a surge to tide
spilling into twilight's gloom
a knee upon surrendered doom
the world a blossom in perilous bloom
her petals sculpt destined wings
rise in hue to sail or sink
fall for battered might
scattered fireflies clutter bright
seen as fiery spots across the sky
the humble tumble freewill’s divide
a chance of life or death divine
as they crumble side by side
reaching for heaven to find
the relentless unbroken light
Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
Life is not a race and depression is real
Got the shirt done and dusted every now
... and then in the here and now the angels sing
Not a wet T-shirt competition ‘though the
living dwell and exist on that beach called
‘Challenge Sands’ and sometimes we fry
The heat bleaches meaning onto the fabric
orchestrates as mosaic a tapestry of surrender
for tears to dry and mute silence to blossom
Into the light over hills and down crusted slopes
slowly picking up speed and when all is told
another story needs remembering for change
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