you convene slow actualization
through unavoidably weakening derision .
your rippling truculence is
ungrudgingly behead by facilitative clearcutness ;
my sleekly violative teflon
randomization of humbling turquoise
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • July 20–26, 2026)
always convene the defence
but never in truculence
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • July 20–26, 2026)
Deep in the forest, critters convene,
decked out in red-white-blue
like a woodland parade gone wild.
Sam the squirrel arrives first
waving a tiny flag
and saluting every oak tree in sight.
The raccoons show up next sporting star-spangled bandanas,
looking suspiciously patriotic
for creatures who steal snacks.
Owls hoot the national anthem
slightly off-key,
but with tremendous heart.
When the fireworks begin, the whole forest gasps~
bursts of color bloom above the treetops
like sky-flowers of freedom.
All the creatures whisper a soft, patriotic chorus:
“God bless America…
and please pass the picnic leftovers.”
On Tuesday, it’s paracentesis;
at least that’s the going in thesis.
It would be quite cool
if they found a pool,
and her pressing discomfort then ceases.
On Wednesday, it’s time to convene
for round two of gemcitabine;
with Ativan raging,
though she’s quite engaging,
we’ll leave before causing a scene!
The grands have come over to play,
and dinner looks downright gourmet.
There’s no need to borrow
the trials of tomorrow;
Instead we’ll rejoice in today!
Caustic systems are breaking down
My son has much to learn
Wavy chips and a bag of scarlet grapes
With Lillie's on white as snow we no more are clowns
Cosmic graves are dug above
Faded rays of luminous hot white suns
Steady dripped and venomous stitched banes of hidden stakes
With ambassadors decked to the nine we bawling
My son we dance now laugh and sing
Learning the systems were not meant to last
Honey cakes and scented roses lament a dance we yet will convene
The phone lies still. The chamber dims its sight.
The walls grow wise with silence long denied.
I sit as one confessed unto the night,
while shadows watch me, curious yet kind.
My thoughts convene, unruly, undisciplined,
half-spoken truths that tremble as they rise.
Old griefs return, in borrowed skins reclined,
and hope arrives too softly to be wise.
I was born late into a weary age,
reared on alarms, on haste, on borrowed breath,
taught how to strive, how neatly play my stage,
not how to meet myself, uncloaked by depth.
O patient dark, thou askest no decree,
no polished truth, no courage neatly won.
Thou stayest while I falter honestly,
and name the selves I thought I had outrun.
So here I stand, no prophecy complete,
no certain end, no lesson neatly spun.
I breathe. I ache. I do not yet retreat.
I’m simply who I am, at twenty-three, alone.
Make a noise
Admonishing the Eroding
Staged by all the cool ploys
Behind gathering to fishing
When you build in silence
Confused enemies of what to attack
Not you, let success make noise
Successes need arcane
Be positive strategically sitting back
Not either Cain or deign
Make a no mean noise
Rather be elan
Make moves
While you get them feign
Depression can be…
Startling with bulging eyes.
Floral patterned nothings.
Maybe a place to sit.
It would be like…
Plopping down into a puddle for no reason.
I’ve been driven.
I used to go to work and school.
Buildings and such.
Rambling on.
But the magic is like a wood chipper.
For nothing.
Depression is like a magical “Whooshing” sound.
All the magical clouds just convene.
With hearts that restart for nothing.
You can’t really go to work or school.
That was the “Whooshing.”
The “Used To, I Used To.”
Depression could have been plopping down in the puddle.
The half constructed drive.
I’ve been driven.
Someone else did the driving.
Drove me.
Maybe there is a place to sit.
There is also ethereal randomness.
I counted on it too much.
I counted on it too much.
What?
Magical clouds and-
Maybe a place to sit.
I am the silence, the unwritten snow,
A patient void where future forests grow.
Within my four white corners, worlds convene,
The as-yet-empty cradle of the scene.
I am the whisper of the world to be,
A boundless, waiting possibility.
I watch the brush reach, a hesitant dove,
And greet the first faint touch of light and love.
The pigment spreads, a river finding shore,
Revealing life where there was none before.
A mountain peaks, a sky begins to gleam,
The sweet birth of a painter and their dream.
I drink the sapphire blue, the scarlet fire,
And rise to meet the artist's deep desire.
No longer blank, but breathing, rich, and wide,
A universe where stories can reside.
The silence shatters in color and sound,
And in my corners, a whole world is found.
Lost within the haunting howls
of a wild west wind
I savor the island’s isolation
its barren, rocky crags
its undulating seas below.
The ocean expands outward
as whitecaps whip frantically
while the beady eyes of seabirds
peer out from their stony perches.
Stoic sentries of the sea
pelicans and seagulls flock
along the rugged shoreline
purposefully perched in rows
or drafting wind currents in flight.
Still other seabirds skim silently
above the silky waves
great hunters of fish
their feathery wings spread wide
as if to capture the ocean itself.
A timeless rhythm prevails
as effortless as breathing pure salt air
in a place where land and sea convene
a place where seabirds reign
as vigilant watchers
within the endless cycle of life.
An initiative unforeseen
Supported by the Countess Aberdeen
Motivated several politicians and were
Encouraged to convene
In the year of 1920
When issues were aplenty
Delegates backed the Cork City charter
And elected MacSwiney, our dear martyr
Yet as many were to grieve
Others would also leave
They were faced with a new mandate
Upon founding the Irish Free State
However not everyone was happy
And things got rather scrappy
With views diverging ever-more
Making it hard to keep the score
The dust took a while to settle
And tested our civic institutions’ mettle
Though issues were left unsolved
Causing city councils to be dissolved
New problems were to be addressed
That would get the people rousing
Occupied with public works and housing
Making the managers obsessed.
That’s an oversimplification
For a topic deserving of dilation
An overview of a creation
Being the Municipal Association
In shadows here, I wait unseen,
Placed by Dewey's ordered scheme,
Does poetry still hold its sheen?
Shakespeare, Poe, their works convene,
Their pages turned, their words agleam,
In shadows here, I wait unseen.
Angelou, Frost, their verses keen,
Yet I remain, in silent dream,
Does poetry still hold its sheen?
A novice's book, with cover sheen,
To join the greats, to gleam, to dream,
In shadows here, I wait unseen.
Do readers still find joy, find meaning?
Or has the world lost its esteem?
Does poetry still hold its sheen?
Oh, seeker, come and make me seen,
Discover me, end this lonely dream,
In shadows here, I wait unseen,
Does poetry still hold its sheen?
I am a merry me frisky fey a tiny man bragged to me
Please join me at my explosive enjoyable revelry
A jollity in his overzealous ambiance was brighter than I had ever seen
Magical merriment and meshugga craziness was about to convene
Are you a leprechaun? I asked the adorable trickster, right away
Name’s McCindlesticks and I’m Celtic Irish, all the ever-loving day
That was good enough for me, being the daughter of a McCormick.
I am a bit Irish myself, and not easy to fool, cajole or trick.
A guarded heart, a fortress built so high,
Behind the walls, a hidden tearful sigh.
I see the shadow, the yearning in your eyes,
A truth unspoken, a silent, sweet disguise.
The words you choose, a carefully veiled script,
A smile that falters, a playful, teasing flip.
You jest and laugh, a mask to hide the ache,
The unspoken longing, the words you cannot break.
But whispers dance, on breezes soft and low,
A yearning melody, a story yet to flow.
I sense the weight, the burden that you bear,
The dreams unspoken, the fears you cannot share.
Don't be afraid, to let the barriers fall,
For hearts unguarded, are the strongest after all.
Let vulnerability be your guiding light,
And share your truth, beneath the moonlit night.
A listening ear, a hand outstretched in trust,
A safe embrace, where shadows turn to dust.
I know you're holding back, a treasure yet unseen,
But open up your heart, and let the love convene.
For in that space, where walls begin to bend,
A deeper connection, a friendship that will mend.
So trust the journey, and take a chance to see,
The beauty that is there, when finally you're set free.
Thoughts continually,
Travel the space between.
Affecting reality,
Although it goes unseen.
Rivers flowing freely,
Their power unforseen.
Pushing forcefully,
Guiding this machine.
Defining what you see,
Creating the scene.
Starting as a baby,
It's bed free and clean.
Trickling slowly,
Across a blank screen.
Before we think clearly,
We created this ravine.
Walls so high and rocky,
A pool of thoughts convene.
Now choosing carefully,
What does it all mean?
Pools filling rapidly,
Flowing in routine.
Growing into a sea,
Molding this figurine,
Creating its' Reality.
Sub Categories
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