I learned the art of quiet long before I learned to speak,
a masterclass in standing tall when all the floors felt weak.
The blueprint of the family, the first to face the tide,
with every heavy standard neatly organized inside.
They compare me to the ghost of who I was at seventeen,
and measure every sorrow against who I should have been.
I poured my whole devotion into rooms that turned to stone,
believing if I gave enough, I wouldn’t sit alone.
I know all of your secrets, kept your history like a vault,
yet when the silence settled in, you named it as my fault.
You said you wanted peaceful days and walked out in the rain,
while I sat stranded, searching for the words to name the pain.
I can explain the heartache to a stranger passing by,
but look into the mirror and the phrases run bone-dry.
They say the ones who lack a home will seek it in the crowd,
but every crowded street I walk is cold and far too loud.
I am tired of the armor, tired of the steady spine,
tired of apologizing just for hurting on my time.
I never meant to break the room; I only sought a space
where someone listens closely to the girl behind the face.
Without metaphor or simile
symbolism, imagery
poetry it cannot be
Bone-dry language
prosaic thought
as poetry ‘tis all for naught
Dare you disagree with me?
~ poetry it cannot be
REDUCTION
Permeable
Plethora
Potpourri
bouquet
Nosegay
perfume dry
Praise decay
Blooming lovely
bone dry fumes
Bone China burnt
white parfum
Colour of roses
Iceberg melts away
Reduction
in warm ocean
Heavens rainbow
reduced to tears...
Drops in the Ocean
Rise to nest in bosom clouds
Rain flows down river
Aqua Marine
23rd May 2026.
Job 36:27,28 (Rain cycle described in Bible)
The cup must be empty, self-parched bone-dry,
The ego stilled, no thirst to drink till drunk.
For emptiness becomes a boundless sky
when space opens up, to move a slam-dunk!
Joy becomes bliss when you stop chasing tails.
When you envisage, emptiness to be
incoming inclusive, to what prevails.
A playful sage, in modus vivendi.
No need to fight for what's already yours.
Your form and shape, are worthless to command
what enters, or arrives at open doors,
slipping through fingers, splayed on honest hand.
Joy ripens fully, when chase is at bay,
Blissful contentment, lingers with the sway.
Some tears dryclean the cheek skin
as shadows stray underneath.
With remnants of tears withheld
upwelling in bone-dry eyes,
as memories of tears lost,
in the shadows of regret,
that we did not, could not cry.
You ! a shadowy Light
sword and feather
my rain and bone dry drought
a He-She from unknown constellation
bear doe oval mirror
beret blanket blue bucket with bits of luck
pluck suck reflecting muck, I duck your buck
an entrance as you exit ~
appearance of fish flashes or fudge flushes
running away acknowledging Self
you tear
touch
gobble go glue
an upside down reality flipping illusionist
magnetic in dark corner with no entrance or exit
my hair blows in blustery wind for you to catch
for my pen to write your
f r e q u e n c y ~
I stoked the fire, you drank the flame.
I poured out my soul, you ditched the game.
I'm gutted, bone dry, howling in pain -
You reeled me in, gave nothing back again.
Black hole love — you ripped me apart.
I'm holding the line, playing my part.
I gave and gave, you drained and drained.
How did our love become so unchained?
Oh Black Hole Love,
I Give, You Suck,
Getting nothing back, in return.
I'm calling All-in!
Black Hole Love, Black Hole Love.
You twist my pleas - I'm on my knees.
Let's play it straight, oh, baby please!
All I want is some fire back from you.
Not choking smoke on black strap blue.
I won't break for you, anymore.
I'm standing, knocking on your door.
I want to love you more and more.
You're the only one that I adore.
Oh Black Hole Love.
I Give, You Suck,
Getting nothing back, in return.
I'm calling All-in!
I won't break for you!
No more, No more!
Black Hole Love ...
Black Hole Love!
of what use is poetry if insipid
it borders on wicked
words can lift the heart
restore the soul ~ or
drain the hope-supply
in a world gone bone-dry
There's a water shortage in countries,
especially where there's strife,
and air conditioning is needed,
to lead a pleasant life.
We also have bone-dry Bermuda
where, except for 5" monthly rainfall,
collected in cisterns or brought by tanker ship,
there's no water to be had at all.
Attempting to inform the people in power,
an endeavour which failed of course,
what every island AC emits,
and it's their free drinking source.
As AC units create water naturally,
on average 5 to 20 gallons
of condensate per day,
producing H2O from humidity,
it's a crime to let it waste away.
It may be but a drop in the bucket,
and yet, place a clean container,
when the unit is switched on,
to collect the drips
of distilled water, safe to imbibe,
below the condensation drain,
and you may have a million sips
again and again and again.
We did not speak of rain;
only the wish that our love
could be again.
The air was bone-dry,
with only the merest glimpse,
of wispy cloud remnants,
in the sky.
But, our thoughts, hopes and wishes
coalesced to form empty
puffy, fluffy, white cloud receptacles.
That we could seed with intent,
by prying drops, one at a time,
from memories long forgotten
gone bone dry.
We tapped our reminiscences,
of the good times we shared,
buried deep in our dry parched ground.
We sent each droplet squeezed,
aloft to gather
in the clouds above.
The clouds darkened with foreboding,
reluctance and trepidation,
as their burden grew
with expectation overdue.
At last, the clouds,
topped up to brimming full,
could hold on no longer!
They burst and gushed out with raindrops.
That toppled on our heads,
sprouting our seeds,
watered from the clouds above,
seeded with our love.
a whisper of loss
a phantom lace
a ghostly touch
fingers close, cold to taste
lingers laughter
cracked bone-dry air
the clock chimes midnight
it is backward here
in this abyss of my mind
seconds falling on stone
on the graves of yesterday
hear the echoes, love, disdain
in the vacant halls
in the dark falls
a broken prayer
on lips of ash
moonlights a skeletal grin
into the labyrinthine memory
where shadows dance your form
I trace the ghost of your hand
cold on my unforgiving heart, glass
yearning sharp
it tastes of rust and rain
they say the living move on
a slow crawl toward the light
the light of man is a lie
a cruel invention
a brutal intention
my mind spins wildly
to your absence, I fly
silent screams of a world
you no longer need
in obsidian depths
where stars are swallowed
we can finally intertwine
two fragments, a shattered dream
I am adrift in the abyss
in the inferno of night
Body rejects itself,
Bone-dry and like a furnace,
It burns alive, kill
It is sand, dead
Dig two graves,
Refuse to rot,
This isn’t revenge.
Hate the body,
It’s nothing but problematic.
One ear open,
Stay somewhat conscious.
Maggots crawl in the body, tearing under the skin,
Refuse to rot, feel it inside-out.
Fling a rope,
It will not reach,
YOUR BODY isn’t strong enough.
Half expected inspiration to fill the air
while I endeavoured to write a poem.
A curse responding much like a veil
reigns over the moonless night while
out my window no stars come into view
and the silence feels perceptively eerie
~ my pen bone dry.
Submitted on March 27, 2025 to contest YOUR CHOICE F sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - Honorable Mention
The steady beat of rain on my head
I glance at the sidewalk
It glances at me
bone dry as can be ~
Are we alive or dead, verily
Santa is on the road, ready to fly.
It’s raining in Minnesota, no lie.
He scratches his snowy beard with a sigh.
Reindeer and sleigh will not get very high.
Kids must get their gifts so he says goodbye
to Mrs. Claus and the elves that certify
the flight though it’s raining tonight. Red-eye
of chief elf unique, it breaches each sky.
Gifts must be delivered by North Pole guy.
It’s raining, no snow, unusual sky
with Minnesota travel that’s bone dry
of flurries. Request of Santa’s supply
though the weather is not frightful, no lie.
He came. He went. Cookies and milk bye-bye.
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