It’s the full moon of our times
they’re awake and stir
the malcontents whine
the schemers slither
the conspirators whisper
the agitators rattle
the instigators coil
the hellions hiss
the hooligans hunt
the miscreants threaten
the scoundrels spit
the reprobates crawl
the thugs strike
the doomsayers gather
the hellraisers have united intent on mayhem
they’ll have their fun and think they’ve taken over
but the time is here for sanity and reason to reappear
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
The air hold’s it’s breath
waiting for you to decide.
Change conspirators,
define that reputation
or let each second slide by.
Don’t say anything sharp lest the implication cut…
Search bar complicity,
Algorithm conspirators,
Digital manipulators,
Bending law to suit perversion,
Our sexualised youth,
Internet fed,
Corporate political lies,
Dressed as a lifestyle;
Undressed,
Exploitation as a business model,
The fifteen year old bikini model,
Jailbreak Jailbait,
Enter Ai,
Prompt; Undress…wave morality goodbye.
End…
by D.N. Read2026©
Acknowledgments.
My writing teacher who lit the fire,
my broken heart I had to repair,
my muse from the very beginning.
My insane desire to keep climbing,
my ambition that knows no bounds,
my taste that desires one in a million.
My shoes that will never need socks,
my spirit that is never on blocks,
my dreams that roll in with high tide.
My conspirators demanding gold,
my haters that are seething pyrite,
my copycats out doing their worst.
My feelings bubbling and determined,
my words filthy that make me gag.
My inner child that refuses reality.
My resilience and all that built it,
my reckless forcing me forward,
my microphone I share poetry on.
Thank you. A million times..thank you.
The church is small.
The paint
peels
in disciplined flakes.
Candles lean toward each other
like conspirators.
I light one
for reasons I cannot defend.
The flame trembles,
but remains.
Outside,
the wind practices disbelief.
Inside,
wax insists on hope.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leave behind your suitcase and Venice’s hurried pace
forgoing culture and medieval history for Dolomieu’s Dolomites~
pinnacles of dolomitic limestone chiseled into grotesque shapes
that refuse postcards—carving their own light at dawn and
gently dissolving into peaceful rose at dusk.
Their trails are old conspirators, whispering switchback secrets
to those like me who love geology, nature and
who walk without hurry.
The trails unwind like forgotten stories
each turn a new clause~
a waterfall’s asterisk, a meadow’s ellipsis:
this writer’s inspiration and paradise.
A farmhouse leans into one of the stone slopes,
its shutters laced with blushing pink geraniums.
Inside, my favorite comfort food--speckled cheese
melted over polenta, golden as an Italian afternoon.
Each peak, a vial where daylight lingers,
hoards time in geologic sieves.
These rouge-colored peaks, half-lit, refuse the night~
patient stars and poets don’t mind.
Death Bed Poetry: Dylan Thomas
Alcohol and co-dependence make poor conspirators
Delivering more a life driven by inquisitors
Dylan Thomas poet and drinker
Part time lover and full-time thinker
In fading health and across the sea
He gathered himself for one last spree
The White Horse Tavern welcomed the man
And there he started his final stand
"I've had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record!"
Alcohol, pneumonia, and Doctor Feltenstein were more than he could afford
Caitlin flew in to remark, "Is the bloody man dead yet?"
Comatose and failing, the bard was not quite there yet.
Still and silent, and lying abed
A few hours later and Dylan was dead
having gone "Gentle into that good night"
with no further words and such little fight.
Thus, the end of our Welsh poet Dylan
a bit of a rogue but not such a villain
who now learns Death does have dominion
in spite of the bard's differing opinion.
Daze and days of penmanship
Potent perhaps a touch of sun
Shipshape warming of outlet ink
Ishmael invites a tale; I say: “stowaway”
Stop all blubbering; just get yammering
Yo ho soupmates, we must steer the ship
Stir golden pot of disbelief and brass tacks
Torrential corkscrew pasta, perhaps?
Pish posh of the alphabet riding the waves
Wending its way, each letter to the crew
Conspirators of sonnets, limericks and dust
Dangerous alliteration, elevation and descent
Decidedly dizain, free verse or blank; thats it?!
The spirit or the flesh?
They are really one-in-the-same,
internals and externals of creation --
the face read-out of our
inner clockworks --
to review
man, his myriad of entangled
relationships, is to begin to understand
The Politics of Satan vs God
We can fool the Soulless press, often
co conspirators in illusion -- Truth
more likened to the quizzical eyes
of children~ amazed, confounded,
and then, lost....
I writ a poem while in the loo
Not busy, nothing else to do
I writ it on some toilet paper
Recapturing some of a lost night’s caper
It seem so quickly things go wrong
Woke up this morning in a thong
Somehow it seems to fit just right
Not too loose, not too tight
My co-conspirators will give me thanks
When I fill in those missing blanks
OH, someone pounding on the door
The paper’s gone, I’ll write no more
In my youth's frolic at King Lear and Pi
all my days were a Shakespearean tale.
Not algebra, not prose did edify
yet test and limits we pass lest we fail.
To learn and open closed minds to ideas
but I learnt before a fall comes a pride
with a conspiracy one alone bears
yet co-conspirators had much to hide.
For each lame alibi concealed misdeed,
each mad ruse and jape blotted my ledger
but we all do a true life lesson heed
when worn is a cowl or crown to measure.
Comic is the court and jester in school
but better a wise king than a wise fool.
Written: May 1992
grabs a hat from the hatstand
fraught, he warps the midday sun
no apricating mellow touch
in haste, too early a venture
while camouflaged conspirators
beckon to no end, lest he dawdles
through waxing moonlit gossamer
and warms the trees of dusk
The imperfect walk of man, cared about in recklessness,
careening for the wall of death, can’t be protected -
no longer in his mama’s womb. Womanized, dehumanized,
faithless…AnD cared about. Those left behind, want to rewind
their watches, but the truth is they couldn’t fix him. All his ills
in his bushy beard, behind it a smile, a hug, a shrug. Darkness
was upon him and in his circle of conspirators…can you believe
the music coming out of them - great big curses, whispers
mixed with praise music…the daring beast brought down
with determined gentleness. They flee from the Spirit’s power.
Still I hope and hope and hope, if this is the end, as it seems,
that somehow, by the skin of his teeth, he made peace with God.
JULY
Honouring name of Julius Ceaser
Month Quintilis renamed : July.
Birth month of Roman General.
Dictator; Roman Empire.
stabbed by conspirators
with close friend Brutus.
His last words ' You
too Brutus ! '
Alas !
Bye !
Never advisable to be naked!
Unfolding ability to assume changes
Depict funeral mesh opaque
Wobbled iron lock conjure
Wakens particular persona to inhabit
Wardrobe wonder honours
Peter Pan collar innocence
Embellished bow breasts for bombshell
Rhinestone on satin stimulant
Deceptively deep, spacious
Dark wood doors swing away to exhibit
Dresses with waves vivacious
Forest of newfound favourites
Frocks rustle, slide, beg to be fondled
Fascinator lavender fragrance
Mysterious occult conspirators
Ultimately select pretty arrangements
Musty garment rots ambiguous
19th January
Happy Birthday Keri ( Mum )
- see, I fashioned my life
to suit me!
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