On love’s straightforward way I slipped,
When careless, gone astray, I slipped.
When taking a shortcut in life,
Walking on feet of clay I slipped.
Spoiled a spotless pure persona,
When on a one night’s stay I slipped.
She’s not the same person since then,
Forgotten I’ve today, I’d slipped.
And still, courage the least I have
To confess it and say I’d slipped.
_________________________
Ghazal | 14.09.2025 | life, love,
Say goodbye to May, Don't stay on the warm way, Bay sun emits warmer ray, Hot day makes grass as hay, And even clay becomes decay.
Years ago I did so choose, to go on a Caribbean clipper ship cruise,
and, in addition to several other islands,
anchored off Nevis, northwest of Saint Kitts,
where, in the late 1780's, Nelson had lived,
and still bears traces of his presence today,
in various parts, pieces and bits.
When our windjammer Skipper informed us,
'Shopping here's good, snorkeling is bad,'
I avoided the former, sought out the latter,
and, as a matter of fact, a good time was had,
for no sooner had I ducked under,
two feet from the waterline,
in about one foot deep (shallow) water,
tho' visibility was, in inches, no more than nine,
I espied a white clay churchwarden pipe,
which I retrieved, broken, not whole,
with one third of the stem, and most of the tobacco-burned bowl.
1787, Nelson married the widow Fanny Nisbet on Nevis,
and, as the island he was about to depart,
'Desist smoking or else!'
Horatio may have heard her insist or impart,
and that which I found, I've a mind to say,
was his very last pipe, he'd reluctantly tossed overboard,
on that sunny day, when, as Captain of Boreas, he sailed away.
Sponsor: Oliver Mckeithan
Rolling Stones Song Titles : 16 lines
submitted : 17/7/25
Placed 1st in Contest
________________________
ANGIE, my devoted dark Love
really and truly I don’t want you
UNDER MY THUMB
it hurts us both as you
PAINT IT BLACK~ makes me wanna hack
freedom’s our choice, our soul’s ardent desire
YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT
we have to escape this mad matrix mire
TUMBLIN DICE ~a dangerous dire vice
let’s gallop to the Camargue without any masks
like WILD HORSES white with gypsy flasks or
fly to Mars if we choose, to booze alongside
HONKY TONK WOMEN, then snugly snooze
each a beautiful hue, feeding our Heart’s muse
on RUBY TUESDAY, we can gaily frolic in hay
THE ROLLING STONES,WE AIN’T NO CLAY !
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Silence!
A labouring sleep,
Got into trance
Of a great leap!
Away from residence.
The crush to say
As adultage,
Meant to be paid.
Has gained teenage,
Having hands of clay!
Those responsibility
A man gains
Bearing sensibility.
Inside the rain,
Has got his ability!
Soft gentle hands,
Got them to pawn.
Changing the books,
Also about the pen,
Beneathing piercing hook!
Congrats ERA!
Dreams broke,
Desires too!
After the father,
Of great gratitude!
HEARTS
of gold
will melt in
the heat of scorn
n'pride, where greed is born.
hearts of stone feel no pain,
loss, nor happiness again.
numb to sorrow but also peace...
imprisoned in stone with no release.
a heart of lead, so heavy with poison,
with bitterness, regret, weighing you down
into the dark~ into depths to drown.
a heart of clay will grow stronger
in the oven of hot lust...
but shatter when it’s hit,
fragile, it will bust.
when flesh and blood,
love's sharp darts...
find true
HEARTS.
Ground fenced becomes a fall garden
deterring squirrels' and rabbits' play.
Guard the soil that winter will harden
defeating Indiana clay.
Gilded tulips (unsightly bulbs' pardon)
deserve a diadem come May.
At the beginning, your thoughts are like fresh clay,
malleable and soft to the touch, shaped by the hands of your early desires,
like a canvas painted with dreams dancing under the morning light.
As time passes, the clay hardens,
fired by the heat of failure, cooled by the chill of loss,
and in that hardening, it finds its true form,
a form that will endure through storms and sun,
through hands that try to reshape it again and again,
like a blind sculptor attempting to redefine time-worn marble.
In the depths of the soul, these thoughts become rocky landscapes,
where memories settle like autumn leaves on cold ground,
and in every crack of the hardened clay, a story hides,
a whisper of the past reverberating in the silence of the present.
So, in the flow of consciousness, you continue to walk this land,
where each step brings echoes of desires and losses,
seeking in every rigid form a trace of warmth,
a memory of the softness from the beginning,
in a never-ending journey through the uncharted maps of your thoughts.
Take a look
Read me like a book
Fill my brown pages
If you find them empty
Write in me feel at ease
Make me happy sad good bad
I’m a mirror of your imagination
Like an Etch a Sketch
I’m easily reset
I’m here for your emancipation
I am the art of your heart
Paint me if that is your spark
Speak me if you have winged words
Sing me if you prefer like black bird
Make me firmed of red clay if you can
Play me like music with your very own hand
Do with me your hearts desire
Only burning within your fire
I’m that idea you had last night
Waiting to be set free to ignite
From her sacred heart blooms a flowered essence
anointed in sapience and love ;
Insightful, as the rain from God's parapet
this cloistered soul rings true
only for the Maker's open hand.
Touched by His Grace, he has created
"The Mystic " in her,
from a lump of wet clay to Sacred fire.
It is a rainy day, Jin wants to play,
The road is full of clay, The park is far away, Is there any way?, The only thing is to pray.
I have flowers all over the yard
not planted, but rather in pots
for this is Kansas
Clay country
Sometimes I Iong for the fields of Iowa
where even the bottom lands has pliable dirt
this clay encourages renegade trees
I have tripped over them and fallen down
three times this week
You would think I would have caught myself
at least once
being 72 is a lot more prone to falling
than being 71 was
When God commanded the light to shine
out of earth’s darkness, the light obeyed.
Then He sent the Light, His Son, divine
to earth - God’s glory thru the Christ conveyed.
This Light of the World has ascended
back to His Father from whom He came.
But His Spirit He has extended
enlightening all who trust in His name.
We house treasured spirit deep within
bodies easily broken and cheap.
In jars of clay we show mortal men
it’s God alone who has power to keep.
Winter sun is yellow gold
Making mud run of melting snow
And Carolina clay is frozen hill
Where kids sled and play at will
Frosted sky with cotton cloud
In the eye of guy driving snow plow
He’s hard at work while we all play
All school kids search for snowy days
I miss when I was like clay.
Malleable and young.
Spinning, and the spinning is playful like a merry go round.
In a process to become something more.
Fingerprints, and crumbling, and mess.
Laughing, and having fun.
And then the kiln hardens me.
And that’s forever.
Until I fall,
And all it takes is one fall to crack.
I can be glued back.
Into a functioning bowl, that will hold soups and cereals for the rest of my life.
But I’ll never be as beautiful…
I miss when I was clay.
But they had this idea.
To take that away.
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