A winter has come into our forest
I have no idea exactly how long
I was merely a long-lost tourist
And now I see of all our leaves are gone.
Nothing damages more than a hard frost
The landscape lay injured and strained
All of the critters are scattered and lost
A sad reminder of all of the pain.
The Winter was here longer than I know
Ravaging more than I could foretell
Above my knees in the freezing snow
Stuck in the sad foliage of farewell.
I take a plow and push through the past.
Bury the blade into our history.
I pick through ice for a mere blade of grass
Any sign of life spells my victory.
I come upon the knotted root of the oak
A fork left on a meal of an empty plate.
The tears from my eyes beginning to soak
The jagged legs that mark my mistakes.
Roots are strong and full of wisdom
They are churned inside the earth so deep
Between these toes is quite the schism
Loud enough to wake me from my sleep.
The branches lurch toward Heaven so high
The stark, black fingers reach towards the Sun
I pray that Spring comes back into our lives
That we can return where we once begun.
A winding, desolate road stands before me,
Covered in white ashy soot.
As nuclear winter stagnates,
Grey corpse clouds spill a thousand secrets,
While asphyxiating dust cakes a boarded-up shack in the faint distance.
Loneliness settles into obsolete bones.
I've been searching for what feels like eons now,
For any semblance of humanity.
Scarcity of food looms with each passing second,
For even the few remaining animals have become paper-thin,
Their skeletons protruding through stretched flesh.
A bitter cold silently encompasses the atmosphere.
Summer evaporated that fateful day,
Never to come again.
Continuing my treacherous trek,
I come upon the frost-tipped shack.
Peering through the gaps of a door half blown away by the aftershocks,
Hope dies, as once again, emptiness is all I find.
My eyes well with tears, only to be interrupted by an uncontrollable cough.
Spitting blood into my hand, the symptoms are getting worse.
Residual radiation is taking its toll.
Death's warm embrace will be welcomed.
But until that fateful day, I continue this journey alone,
Perpetually seeking any voice to ring out in a macabre, self-fulfilling apocalypse.
Israel,
the lapdog
of America
and the West.
You are not
a country.
You have become
a symbol
of terror.
Fascism,
rooted in violence
and racial hatred,
has rejected
liberal democracy.
Yet America
and the Western hypocrites
still use you
to perpetuate
their wickedness.
Israel,
you have denied
others
their individual rights,
while embracing
the power
of domination.
Causing chaos
around the world
has become
your daily bread.
Some say,
what you do today,
was once done
in Europe,
until Europe
grew weary
and sent you
to the Middle East.
Now,
the East
is on fire.
But Israel,
remember this—
history
repeats itself.
What came upon you
in the past
may one day
come upon you
again.
Israel,
the love
the world
once had for you
is slowly
fading away.
And those
who defend you today,
may tomorrow
become
your enemies.
For power
cannot purchase
the conscience
of humanity.
And no nation,
however strong,
can escape
the judgment
of history.
"O those!" Simply do sigh the old
And sense-dulled, among us.
Of wonder a revelation
We newly come upon.
To be bottled, placed in a book
Tadpole; dry pressed flower.
"Earth things". But whose worth's magic
Is, boy, girl-eyed cosmic!
Sometimes I follow faded stars
Like empty houses
Deserted bars
Sometimes I seek out tired skies
And follow them
With tired eyes
Sometimes I fall i to the mists
And they embrace me
Coldest kiss
There is no end im guided on
Through dark lost places
I come upon
And there is comfort in this grey
I've become a ghost
And here I'll stay
If the Rainman would concur, I would take all my days cloudy and
all my moments as this sodden one, but to my chagrin he does not.
Things come upon me near the moistened river. The water in the air
takes me back to a Styrofoam cup of juicy minnow bait on a drizzly day.
Countless coconuts swirl down this smelly tributary. They don’t
about each other or about why the tide takes them there it pleases.
You can’t tell me that they do not think like us, or maybe they don’t.
Either way they cannot know the sacredness of watching a ballet
of synchronized raindrops from beneath the water’s surface.
Submitted by Gary Baldwin (Jan 21, 2026)
for the Let it Rain Poetry Contest
Its double have I
Come upon.
Its meek-moulded one
For this hut.
Quietly resigned.
Low-lying.
Shakes, squirms not eying
World, ogrish.
With breast out, brutish
Does for peak
Rumbling, stormed o'er bleak
Always jut.
you feel like home
but not the kind
that leaves a spare key.
yours is a house in progress
with half-painted walls
a lockbox on the front door
a basement wrapped in drop-cloth.
to most
the mess means hazards.
danger.
but to me
messy simply means
human.
I’ve walked the grand
unfinished halls
with no map
no plan
but curiosity
and faith
that I can explore.
the spaces seem to whisper
with possibility.
some doors I’ve come upon
reveal beautiful rooms.
others stay locked
requiring keys that I don’t yet have.
when I sit on the porch at night
letting the breeze brush my face
watching fireflies dance
I’m close enough
to feel the warmth
through the shutters.
I never know
quite when to enter
and yet
I keep returning
because
even in construction
the foundation feels safe
and I want to see the blueprints
unfurl into something
I might belong to
someday.
WHAT I LOVE - First Rispetto
Upon a perusal of things that I love
An elemental truth I have come upon
There’s nothing beautiful, below or above
Not connected in some way to a person
Life is about people, whether gent or femme
The scent of my love or a poetic gem
Even nature means nothing if you can’t share
The beauty with somebody for whom you care
WHAT I HATE - Second Rispetto
Upon introspection of that which I hate
Another splinter has been lodged in my mind
There is nothing that I loathe, early or late
That exists outside the scope of all mankind
All is connected to a broad or a bloke
Pounding music from a car, second-hand smoke
The ticking clock because it’s a reminder
I’ll soon be a thing, not someone to hold her
On this journey that I am on
Feeling Lighter
Beauty brighter
I come upon this pathway
Or should I say a trail
Similar to a master
Oops! I mean a primary
I find myself stopping right in the center
I suddenly sit down
Stretch my legs out
Grab my out of nowhere headphones
Embrace the perfectly expressive breeze
And tune in to this rare find
I may be the only one listening
Nevertheless my rare smile is glistening
My respite is thoroughly enjoyed
After another wonderfully rare rhythmic experience
I pull myself up and The Search Continues On....
What am I doing here again?
I promised I would be gone,
But the muscle fibres beat and pull me back.
It will soon come upon,
So all I can do is lay on track,
and your forlorn look will break my heart.
I’m speechless to say the least
I’ve been looking forward to the Feast
Regardless, today is my day to be happy and full of joy
More or less…I’m trying to pick up yesterday’s mess I made as a young boy
I have nothing else to say
My words have been left behind
Today, I’m going to pray
Happiness will heal our lost mind
Kingdom, will you come?
Will You come upon us?
Spirit of God, will you be
With us to join the Lord and Christ for eternity?
I have nothing left to say
Either than I will pray
That You will see me through this pain
That You will forgive me for my mind train
And the sins I’ve done…
The sins I’ve committed a ton
The sins I’ve preyed upon
The sins I’ve lusted on on and on and on
The Sabbath of truth and rest
Is here to stay and comfort me
I’m trying my hardest and best
To be content with myself honestly
Kingdom of the Lord…
You are playing a chord
Of unattainable Accord
I hold on to Jesus’ sword…
With a weapon of peace and a shield from this chaotic mess
In pieces at ease, at ease
With a little blessed breeze to blow away the hopelessness
Let us all be in unity — oh please…
I couldn't give a toss for the caber
cromach bagpipes sporran or kilt
(a fling's the thing)
and you can stick your dirk in your haggis
up to its bog-wood hilt
yet I'd like to hike through the heather
on happy Sassenach holidays
see the scenery admire the view
along Scottish hilly highways and byways
to pick a pink-purple thistle or two
and should I come upon a hairy Highland cow
on the hoof in a friendly farmer's flink fold
(for protection from the cold)
in no uncertain terms I would declare
"I say to you, hoo noo broon coo?"
och aye no sooner said than done
than perchance from the Caledonian bovine one
the reply too true in a Scots burr would come...
'Moo!'
I never said the fish was that big,
just long enough for your surprise.
Yes, the sky did fall down once -
though not in ways you've come upon.
The art of the little white lie
is a Trojan horse disguised
to catch your attention.
To trick you to pose or question
what you'd never otherwise ask.
The lie, error or mistake,
flips the mind to correction,
demanding reparation.
It works a treat for advertisers
lecturers, presenters, debaters and charlatans.
It begs the question, demeans the ask-er,
but masters the magician's
conjuring tricks of deception.
A fool takes the bait,
a wise one casts acting the fool.
It has been said: that if just one person remembers,
your life after you are gone,
then you may still be forced to walk this earth
tied to a false memory.
My prayer, is to be entirely forgotten, not recalled at all,
not for the wealth of my spirit, or for its poverty,
not for my mortal works, or for all those works,
unfinished or laid aside. LET ME BE,
I do not wish to remain, as an eclipse of your mind.
However, if by chance you come upon
one sunlit buttercup,
shining upon a dewy meadow,
you may recognize that same simplicity in you,
and discerning that fleeting display,
see it as a clear immortal vision,
of your own awakening eyes -
remember that - only that.
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