Past every known horizon, held inside the stolen light,
A flicker of promise rises, wet with Aegean’s salt.
The echo of Mount Parnassus, where the Muses walk at night,
A spectrum of reflections—the first Promethean signal, sharp and high.
The flames are finally free from the chill of the earth.
It pulses through sapphire-blue data cables, beneath the sea.
A swift code humming on an electric tongue, a wire thin as glass,
Where silicon and soul now challenge mortal walls.
The warmth upon my palm, a fragile circuit’s heat,
A digital dawn breaks now, on seas of light where ancient stone dissolves.
A frequency rings through the gulf of years,
The world's true voice, unsynchronized, is fiercely held and heard;
Through every force of nature, this bright pulse speeds on fiber-optic lines.
We seize the future's turning, watching the past unwind,
This hard-won wisdom guides the human quest for freedom.
Against the dark tyranny that starves the seeking mind,
The truth we need is held deep inside the spirit of mankind.
Water speaks under the planks.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
I will not feed the water.
The river wears broken mirrors.
It calls my name in pieces.
I will not feed the water.
The bridge pretends to be mercy.
Bolts cry out then swallow sound.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
You wait across the dark.
Your voice a thin lantern in skull.
I will not feed the water.
Cables hum like teeth in wind.
Each sway drafts endings I can't revise.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
I taught myself fire for you.
Now current learns my face.
I will not feed the water.
Love begs; the current applauds.
Boards bow praying not to snap.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
Something separates us final.
Wood, water, and my terror.
I will not feed the water.
Coiled in piles or stretched along the floorboards
Day by day more and more cables and cords
Burnt out.
Bent.
Wired.
Wild.
I’m shallow as old trenches.
Oof.
Maybe a pail filled with old cables.
A slab of me in my prime.
Undesirable.
Like the sluggish way sap dries.
Or doesn’t at all in the humidity.
Like dead ladybug tea.
My best times were just that:
Soggy human skin flakes.
Written: May 29, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Margarita Lillico
1st place contest winner
********************
O hallowed recliner, throne of my repose,
you cradle my chaos, you cushion my woes.
With cup-holder majesty, armrest divine,
you whisper: *“Forget the world, the remote is mine.”*
The computer hums like a loyal old pet,
its screen a sanctuary of Wi-Fi regret.
Emails parade like clowns in a ring,
while Netflix insists I watch *one more thing.*
Domestic bliss? Oh, surely it’s this—
a kingdom of crumbs, a fortress of fizz.
The recliner reclines, the keyboard complains,
yet comfort and clutter run through my veins.
So crown me with cables, baptize me in light,
let spreadsheets and sitcoms both bless my night.
For bliss is not roses, nor candlelit cheer—
It’s Wi-Fi that works, and a fridge full of beer.
Since last June they’ve been working our main street
waiting in lines had us all off our beat.
Now in the middle of March
can we lose any more starch?
With all four lanes closed, for routes we compete.
Perhaps next June, when the pipes all are done,
cables in place and concrete has hardened,
all the bumps will be leveled;
we can get back on schedule.
Can a year’s aggravation be pardoned?
Take for a text the dust on the shelf
Read from its crumpled accumulation
Imagine an origin out of thin air
Fertilised by soft currents of energy
Reaching out limblessly to the overspreading
Tangle of mystery cables.
Read in the wan lamplight
The unspoken years’ story
Speck by speck gently positioned;
Coherence emerges
Into space beyond seeing.
Then regret supervenes
On the furry grey moss
And floats up and away
To the darkness of loss
[Poet’s Note : this is a wry autobiographical memory written in traditional pirouette verse viz. 2 quintains, line 5 & 6 repeat, which is the toe turnaround. I wanted to write a narrative of a weird syncopated vignette, when I was knitting a pink mohair jersey at the time of my imprisonment. I reduced the narrative to a pirouette. When in prison, one of my interrogators was knitting the EXACT jersey in the exact colour & exact wool ! ie. in the final analysis, (in retrospect) everything in human life can be reduced to a pirouette, a turn-around dance ! ]
knitting a pink jersey
mohair with cables fine
to process flying thoughts
political activist
south africa turmoiled
south africa turmoiled
security police
came with casspirs and cuffs
interrogation chamber
police knit jersey pink
~~~~~~~~~
Silence stretched as the elevator
stalled between floors.
I heard the cables clang and groan;
the gears grind and moan.
Then the penny dropped —
Switches flipped, engines roared.
Lights woke up and trembled.
Eyes blinked open as
understanding burst into bloom
Gravity had claimed its coin!
All that waiting.
All that focus on waiting, pending,
for a penny to deliver its message
seems so absurd.
But what falls slowly, lands deeply,
and truth must wait for doubt to fade,
Watching a penny roll on its side,
taking its time to stop and topple,
is how gravity works on pennies.
I didn't fill out any paperwork.
There was no memo, no consent form.
Just a nameless morning when the mirror refused
to acknowledge anything above my collarbone.
After that, people entered me carrying grief
in cardboard boxes. Pressed buttons
for floors that didn't exist.
A man from 4D requested the roof,
as if it were still an option.
On Thursday, a child in a yellow parka
whispered a song
I recognized from my sleep paralysis years.
It all arrived sticky and wrong
though I tried to hum along,
my cables winced.
By Sunday I was hosting more
than traffic. Something moved
inside the machinery, something
older than ballast or balance,
and it wouldn't stop licking the grease
from its own teeth.
It told me to smile more.
I jammed the doors.
hummingbird—
someone's mouth
in my throat
Say, dig what I say
Talkin’ bout a new jazz vibe/
Man, move over/
the Jazz Cookers are hittin’ their stride in the groove to stay alive/
Eddie Henderson/
Cecil McBee/
George Cables,Billy Hart
and Billy Harper/
swingin’ harder jazz be flying/
downbeat, upbeat, man, count It off/
their soul auras are in the jazz notes they play/
David Weiss and Donald Harrison are fryin’ their amps/
burnin’ the house down/
with the jazz club scene in decline/
and record labels cuttin’ back on jazz/
the jazz Cookers have to stay alive and relevant in a jazz-changing world/
so dig, be cool struttin’ as Sonny Clark would say/
you might not always get a payday but you love to play/
the Cookers boss horns are on fire/
hip tones blowin' from the stage/bro, this is the jazz life you chose and after a gig, you might be all alone/
so be in the moment and improvise on your jazz note phrasing/
you’ll find the rhythm and meaning knowing you can play the same note gig after gig night after night/
but different every time/
are you hip to the Cookers?/
they will have you finger poppin’ and blowin' your mind/
wahoo that’s a whole lotta jazz
I have friends I’ve never seen before
At least not face to face.
I speak with them with ones and zeros
In a world called cyberspace.
Through the magic of the microchips
At the speed of light they say,
Speaking in code that somehow flows
In electrons all the way.
From one mind and soul to another
Poetic friend somewhere,
All around this big wide world
With countless thoughts we share.
Reading and rhyming like walking and climbing,
Or enjoying the morning dew,
With keypad strikes we love to write
Like dreams that all come true.
Through cables and wires that carry our desires
To share what’s on our minds,
And greet one another like sisters and brothers
From other mothers, you’ll always find…
We’re always musing, thinking and choosing
The best verbs and nouns to say,
Good morning, good evening, good everything
To my poetic friends today.
If you’re lacking focus or purpose, therefore,
Don’t hesitate to find,
My poetic friends out buzzing again
Through the magic of cyberspace lines.
Clad in Kevlar on some forest land leased,
big saw in his hand, engine idling,
gets put to the tree and shatters the peace,
works it just right, and the tree is falling.
Adjusts his visor, then lops off the limbs,
the yarder comes down, cables cinch up tight,
makes sure it is a good distance from him,
then yanks the logs up as if they’re in flight.
A claw grabs them there, loads them in the truck,
down rough road it trundles with its cargo,
off to the mill, so they can make a buck,
on to the next tree the lumberjack goes,
knows if he screws up there’s a chance he dies,
the risk you take working the mountainside.
"Home is the story of who we are,
and a collection of all we love."
Wall Decoration Art
I miss the beautiful old home of my childhood ~
an elegant Victorian,
built in a beloved neighborhood,
of quiet streets shaded by ancient weeping trees,
where I played with my friend Louise,
and made up wild stories of make believe
that in time became poems to share.
How I love the many lovely stained glass windows ~
the cables and pillars,
the winding staircase going up,
to my attic room,
my room overlooking mom's garden.
I can still see all my dolls,
sitting on the bed,
all my teddy bears waiting for me,
it was a pretty room.
Did I hear a meow in this hazy dream I am having ~
that must be Snowball kitty cat,
she often slept in the closet.
I remember the kitchen smells,
grandma baking pies and cookies,
mom making a roast for supper,
and dad working in his workshop.
It was a time of peace and tranquility,
a place I miss so much.
The woman of the day cables brought us a decorated egg
I would have rather had some ale, in a sturdy looking keg
Our crocodile-like creature wanted to taste the egg of course.
The blue bird of happiness was irritated, we call him Mr. Norse.
A dragon with a striped tummy showed up carrying a sign.
Everyone stand down, the woman yelled, that dragon is all mine.
We had no idea what happened to him, but she was all upset.
Mr. Norse who is a gloomy goober said “she will eat him, I do bet.”
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