snake or mouse? Take your pick
yes, in your house, yes, in your house.
take a risk, don’t be thick
choose one today – a snake or mouse?
snakes are more colorful of course
their scales creepy, hair not coarse
mice are creepy, they dart and scare
snake or mouse? Choose if you dare.
corn snakes, rat snakes, bold and black
mice with teeth, nibbling down your back
Make your choice please, get out your cheese
There’s a creature waiting, around your knees
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the sky bleeds yolk over Saint-Rémy,
a fever-bright wash, thick as summer’s breath.
mountains crouch in indigo, their edges
softened by dusk’s bruising fingers.
grasses shiver—coarse strokes of emerald,
ochre, jade—a restless sea halted mid-sway.
a farmhouse kneels, its red roof smoldering
against the slope’s drowsy violet.
twisted trees claw at the light,
their crooked fingers sketching shadows
across the meadow’s thistly skin.
the fence stands tightly drawn.
"The future is an unimagined landscape." - Thomas S. Monson
My dreams, like migratory birds, take flight.
I visit my dark known and unknown realms.
I brighten dark nooks with colourful light.
Feeling each charm-tinge, my heart overwhelms.
Why should I cram my head with a coarse load?
I need not, as a freak, cut others' throat.
I should, with no prejudice, write my code.
I should slowly take the helm of my boat.
Paths are endless. Vistas are numerous.
I should undertake my pilgrimage now.
Should I put my trust in futile rumours?
To beauty before me, I'd always bow.
My heart and mind are tabula rasa.
Nature would scribe existential drama.
I step from whirring future gears
To shadowed halls of moss and mire,
Where candles flicker, knowledge fears,
And hope is but a guttering fire.
Cobblestones echo underfoot,
A market square of mud and cries—
Peasants barter, beggars brood,
Monks guard secrets, wary-eyed.
The plague carts rattle down the lane,
A priest’s Latin lost on cold stone,
Superstition thick as rain—
Witch or wise, you die alone.
But look—within the abbey’s walls,
A child’s voice stirs the silent night,
Tracing stars on parchment, small,
Dreaming truths beyond the fright.
If I could change one thread of fate,
Would I bring a book, a spark,
A word of science to translate
The world from brittle dark?
But history’s woven, coarse and tight—
A single tug might fray the seams.
So gently, I leave one lantern light,
And trust the dawn to find their dreams.
Cold is her name
A tweed hides her quiet eyes
Beneath coarse outer skin
Is there warmth she tries to hide?
Threads tell their tale
Woven bright with whispered past
Hard to crack her pale heart
A staple that will still last.
Second in TEXTURE OF MINIMALISM Poetry Contest by Nette Onclaud
Joys doze between antiques.
Faceless memories soar.
The breeze, through cracked tiles, leaks.
Doors, with their coarse voice, screech.
Filled with footsteps, floors squeak.
Mute musings reach their peaks.
A Cistercian and a Buddhist monk
sat facing each other
across a simple wooden table
in a cold room;
a shaft of sunlight
from an open window
illuminating
the coarse bread
and a simple bowl of beans
they were sharing.
One monk with god;
one with no god
discussing the journeys
they had made;
the paths taken.
Two horseflies entered
through the open window
bothering them both,
and the food they were eating.
The Cistercian
quickly swatted one fly
and brushed it to the floor.
The Buddhist
took a sheet of paper;
carefully lifted the other fly from the bread,
walked it over to the window,
set the fly free,
and closed the window.
(“Corpus Callosum”, 2017, original encaustic)
Reverse Osmosis of Life
It’s a two way street
The way reality exists
Divided into truth on one side
And illusion’s delusions the other,
And yet the most fascinating aspect
Is the membrane that exists between the two
A membrane of I don’t know what,
But which I’m sure the ancients had a name for,
Which divides, insulates and yet connects
And filters through cosmic osmosis
The personal and transpersonal,
Or you could say the mortal and immortal.
Sometimes I can feel the membrane at work
Seeing it even just beyond the limits of my mind’s eye
Knowing what it’s doing
As it transpires
Because I am in fact on both sides simultaneously
At least to some degree.
Everything after all is an extension
And expression of Life,
You, me, us,
In whatever forms it finds us
From refined and subtle to coarse and gross.
The other night I dreamt of being a bridge
Not a figurative one, but literally
An object with girders and cross members
Able to span a stream or gully.
It didn’t surprise me, just intrigue me
That the creative nature of the Mind
Is what it is
And in fact, is all there is.
(8/18/25)
Nette Onclaud, Rolling with the R’s, 8/4/2025
Rhythm of a River
rambling
funny waters,
downward rapidity
of laughter on white water raft.
unintended coxswain gets rogue-wave kissed.
guides directing, this way and that,
up and down; rowers with
coarse correction,
rambling.
caged in a form in this domain
fleeting is joy as also pain
since we feel not one with the source
thus are prone to struggle and strain
if we give up the use of force
discarding feral instincts coarse
befriending silence, love entwined
we read script of bliss penned in morse
head melds with heart, love aligned
one with oneness, the truth’s divined
bliss in permanence here to stay
all cravings of ego declined
making love and light our mainstay
our heart emits a bliss sun ray
being that flame we have become
making earth life seem like mere play
Have it
At room
Temperature
Before cooking.
No marinade.
Just coarse salt
And pepper.
Hot heavy pan
Medium to high heat.
Flip when seared.
Dark brown.
Lower heat.
Lotsa butter,
Mushrooms,
Chopped shallots,
Drops of
Lee and Perrins.
Squirt of lemon &
Dash of parsley
At the end.
Have a warm plate.
Drop it all from the pan.
Keep plate
On low warm.
Let it sit for 20min.
Tenderloin is delicate.
A bond like ours is like a bud,
Innocent with no identity to mud or blood.
A bud is small and delicate,
It describes our bond as I dedicate.
A flower bud is fragile and vulnerable,
Giving our bond a name is unreliable.
A bud has full potential for growth,
So is our bond and must be nurtured by both.
Let's not rush our friendship to the unknown,
Rather let's allow it to be grown.
I do care about you, I do like you,
But it's not to the point where it turns into love.
The words you spew ,
Only you know if they are true.
I only asked for a good time,
And you gave me a dish of grime.
My tongue may be coarse,
I say words with no remorse .
I just want to know our course,
Because what we are doing looks like force.
“Ah! Ah!” cried Mr. Shaw, a museum man of science in 1799,
as he carefully unwrapped a specimen from New South Wales.
It was Labeled: "It's a weird one; Caught in a creek; Dug from a burrow with egg nest!"
Mr. Shaw’s heart thumped with suspicion of a prank or fraud, as he noted what he saw:
It had the webbed feet, a rubbery bill, and the eggs of a duck.
It had a wide flat beaver's tail and coarse thick brown fur.
It had two snake-like fangs, on its hind legs, and small piggy eyes.
It suckled its young with milk, but no nipples were found.
Mr. Shaw looked hard, but found no traces of stitches, glue or bindings.
How can this be? How can this be real? How utterly bizarre?
"Ah! Ah! I know!" God, the creator, has a wicked sense of humor!
Behold! The duck-billed, flat-footed - Platypus!
I AM THE LIGHT WITHIN THE DARK
On the course of life's highway;
I am walking to mine horizon;
In the witness I am smart;
I'm a walking to mine horizon;
I am the light, within the dark;
I am the heat, in the fire spark;
When noon nest loses in light;
Standing on the curb
In the witness I am smart;
I am righteously embarked;
On the course of life's highway;
I am walking to mine horizon;
I am the heat, in the fire spark;
I am the light, within the dark;
PIDGIN(NIGERIAN)?for di coarse for life's highway;
i am walking to mine horizon;
for di witness i am smart;
i'm a walking to mine horizon;
i am di lait, for inside di dark;
i am di heat, for di faya spark;
wen noon nest looses for lait;
standing for di curb
for di witness i am smart;
i am righteously embarked;
for di coarse for life's highway;
i am walking to mine horizon;
i am di heat, for di faya spark;
i am di lait, for inside di dark;
Your whisper is in the burble of the spring stream.
You pass through the internodes like rays through a prism.
I have composed my lyrics. I would like to sing.
My morphemes are coarse. Could you give me your rhythm?
Aesthetics and passions amalgamate in me.
My soul finds solace in your consoling bosom.
Sentiments break within me, like waves of the sea.
Words move tunelessly. Could you give me your rhythm?
Mind and heart should be in tune, like a musical.
Compassion for creatures should be the sole dictum.
Shouldn't equilibrium be endless moral?
Castles of creeds crash. Could you give me your rhythm?
To begin and end each of my days with truism
Dear Mother Nature, could you give me your rhythm?
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