The woman at the shelter with 7 kids
I felt blessed in my mess
My infant won’t remember this
Her kids were cute from 10 to 2
Pitter patter a stepping ladder
How she loved on them swooned
The shelter gave her a few carts
They made do with those few
Sleeping was a Tetris game of art
I remember how cold it was
We huddle and cuddle
Warming our children with love
Watching like a hawk at lights off
Such a place often not safe
From two legged predators that walk
I told myself never will I share the story
Forget you’re here dry your tears
But trial to triumph God gives glory
I wonder about that woman still
Did her kids remember it
The cots the situation the chill
Instead of keeping it a silver secret
Told my son what was done
Hoping he won’t ever repeat it need it
Thank you for the heavenly volunteers
Working there donating care
I remember after all these years happy tears
ladybugs riding bicycles passed me
as I meandered toward forest’s hollow tree
two of them waved, three kept pedaling
in the lives of the fey, I was now meddling
tiny violets gave me a dance of glee
riding ladybugs were joined by gremlins three
we are enroute, we are on our way!
blue faeries cheered and yelled “hooray!”
My mission was to warn the faerie queen.
about brownies with mischief seldom seen
They had bad intent in their hearts, some said.
I found her sitting in an enormous flower bed.
I gave her the warning, wondering if it was true.
She bestowed upon me a bit of her flowers’ dew.
The ladybugs were milling around, showing off their dots.
Gremlins three were lying in cushiony cots.
Have you seen those cotton dots
fluffy spots, there’s quite a lot
have you seen those cotton dots
up among the trees?
Touch those fuzzy cotton dots
pile them into bags and cots
soft white balls of silky knots
flowing in the breeze.
Pick those cuddly cotton dots
weave them into shirts and socks
spin to yarn, there’s quite a lot
up among the trees.
Written on 4th September, 2025 for the international poetry contest "WA Gentle Hand" sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose. Placement 2nd.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God’s hands are softer than the snowflake.
His tender touch feels like falling dew,
blown by a gentle breeze~
Soothing as a whisper on the ear,
a feather-stroke that lulls us to sleep
as babies.
As it was in our cots,
His tender touch still cares—
a guiding light for our feet
against the serpent’s bite.
And when troubles torment,
He calms us with His soothing balm,
brushing our faces
until they sparkle with peace.
From infant cradles
to the courts of adulthood’s scorn,
His tender care endures.
He pours His grace
in the warmth of a prodigious embrace.
Though He has filled our lives
to the brim with His care,
His magnificence remains more vast
than the waters of the oceans.
Nothing compares to God’s tender touch:
refining us like the sunbeam’s glow
through the hands of a gentle potter,
flowing like the river’s nourishing stream,
to protect, to guide, to guard, to restore
our fragile souls.
Astronauts sleep like bats
Hanging from the ceiling in bags
But this does not tell us about astro-cats
Do they sleep in cots made of rags?
What about astro-dogs and astro-pigs?
Are their bunks teeny or the biggest of the bigs?
Has there yet been an astro-horse?
Political correctness says there should be one of course.
They sat in love below a willow tree,
And from afar, they heard the rumbling sea.
He looked at her; green eyes seemed full of tears.
He asked what's wrong, afraid he saw some fears.
I am afraid, she said. I dare not tell.
The vale is vast, and flowers spread their smell.
I'm tired, my back aches, and I yearn for figs.
I'm hungry, oh, for a plate of spare ribs.
He stood and ran towards the sea in haste,
And with clothes on, he jumped, feeling abase.
The cold sea spray calmed down his tattered thoughts.
He loved her and began to dream of cots.
He took her in his arms and kissed her sweet,
We'll wed and have so many more to greet.
Placed 1
Paralysis in the body makes the mind dead as well.
Doesn't existence drag, like an engine-less machine?
Though a hundred stewards assist, isn't life more than hell?
bed, like servants who never heed, remains deadly serene.
Tension and depression rise like a monsoon thunderbolt.
They stay on, like seasons, with alterations in tempers.
Anger, anxiety, and uncertainty tunnel-vault
Helplessness and hopelessness blaze like unending embers.
These found favour in the eyes of the one who came for them.
Just a look, a smile, a gentle touch, and a word of peace
In his person, he resembled the world's most precious gem.
In his presence, each one found their eternal troubles cease.
Four carried him, as though he were dead, when they came to him.
Carrying their cots, they walked, singing a grace-filled hymn.
Monday blues are preceded by Sunday yellows
And I have always hated these Sunday afternoons
To me, they feel so lazy
I watch as the world turns silent and still
No noise except for the creaking of a fan or a radio in the distance
Listen closely, you might even be able to hear the ticking of the clock
I watch as the people sleep on cots or mats strewn on the floor
Their bellies rising ever so slightly and their mouths open, snoring
They are immersed in a slumber earned after a week's toil
A minute to ease up in the middle of the day, free from travail
For me these afternoons are different though,
As the world rests, I observe time stopping, taking a step back before charging again at the new week
Sundays feel like the warm sun on your skin as you sit by a river in the countryside
You watch the river flow past ever so lazily
Eyes glazed, lost in nostalgia and peace on your mind.
Nets are hauled and homeward go the shrimp boats
rolling slow and easy on a sunset path,
their droning engines chugging
over a rippling seafoam.
In the mangrove swamp
an egret sets its white sails and glides upwards
upon hot winds.
The sky opens for its passage
leading it through a cloudless window.
Cypress roots grip the darkening water.
their knees just above a brackish deep.
Mosquitoes dance in the dank
as shadows reach inwards.
Tonight on the bayou, grills will be heated,
pots filled,
while fishing nets are neatly reefed and mended
by rough and ready hands.
Children will skip and play in the barefooted
calm of late evening,
until carried away to their cots
sleepily listening to anhinga and loon
chant their native calls
beneath a far from sleeping lakeside moon.
Cuddled from afar;
Love at first sight.
Not for what, cheeks would mark
Bites wild, in the fox!
Content left snowed on;
Heart-melting quite.
Not for what, cots would ditch
Runs wild, in red sox!
Dawn arrives in a dark widow’s shawl.
A hard sea rubs raw
the knuckled bones of the shore.
The first thing a sailor sees as he dreams of arrival
are the white hands. Sometimes the hands
are land marooned seagulls,
sometimes the hands are the open fists of the sea.
When in a stony village by the waves
he disembarks from the tossing dark,
when he clambers over its sea walls
he laughs, but it is not a merry laughter
more a harsh cry of a wild and restless of joy.
The cobbled streets are shedding their scales.
Fish heads are poking through net curtains.
Mackerels swim in world-weary eyes.
Old men leave their cots
shave their whiskers with a clam shell.
Seaweeds hang like dreadlocks from dripping eves.
Bare cold feet roll over paved stones
all is slipping backwards.
A sailor must wash his face with beer
while bailing green water out of his shipwrecked eyes.
The well-endowed temptress inspired the giant to think some wild thoughts.
Since she knew it, she did not intend to get anywhere near his cots.
The giant tried in vain to take his wild ideas and clot them with blots.
They were both fools in love but they did not know it yet!
The villagers made up all kinds of stories when they noticed the match.
They tore up each other’s ears with sordid tales of grab, kiss and snatch.
Soon these rumors were wafting around the village in a big gnarled batch.
Some even said the giant was the temptress’ pet!
You know how a lie can get tangled and twisted and blow in the wind?
Gossips were chasing new crazier ideas so hard, our ears were skinned.
Birds were running from the whispers, and the fishes’ flippers all grinned.
Most of the moldy rumors flying were sour and wet!
This is not rocket science, it is not truth, it is simply not right!
Stated a young lad whose character and morals were nice and tight.
We all need to apologize to the temptress and the giant tonight.
But they were squirreled away in a love-making net.
Written 4-30-2022
Contest: Tall Tales 2
Sponsor: Jeff Kyser
Turn to quenching winds; cherish what you can't see.
Learn to study vastness rippling at sea.
Birds watch you from high as they tranquilly soar.
Words elevated mend a heart that's sore.
Songs of praise are the greatest compliment.
Strong and gentle, our natures complement.
Thoughts of gratitude charm, expressed aloud.
Cots, blankets, and laughter are allowed.
Shells cling to sea rocks; we harvest mussels.
Swells hug your tee shirt, revealing muscles.
Pull me close like friendly breezes that blew.
Full of mysteries are diverse realms blue.
Sky's palette blends at a quarter past eight.
Eyes twinkle from marshmallows we ate.
You strum your ukulele; we become a band.
Two voices that melt cannot be banned.
Seagull calls merge in a tune that's choral.
Regal beauty flaps around hidden coral.
Sway like moonlit, twinkling leaves of beech.
Stay with me tonight upon this lot of beach.
7-14-2021
(Rhyme beginnings, homophone endings)
Tinkerbelle invited muse Trixie to join her at the Martini Lounge tonight
They both had too much to drink, ended up sassy, and quite tight.
Some randy elves tried to pick them up, but they said no thank you.
They were just coherent enough to send them off, into the winter blue.
I knew my muse was gone, but had no idea she knew Tinkerbelle.
Where are you Trixie? I was asking her. No poems tonight. Oh, well.
She’d be back in the morning; she was plain gone from my head.
When she came in with a hangover, I woke straight up I bed.
Where have you been? I asked her. She giggled like a dancing top.
I asked her to quit, but she couldn’t or simply wouldn’t stop.
I threatened to lock her up, and she hiccupped happy silly thoughts.
She knows who is in charge, I guess. She fell face down on her cots.
I wanted to call up Tinkerbelle and give her a piece of my mind.
Then I remembered that muses and faeries need to be with their kind.
It is only New Years Eve, so who am I to take her away from a friend?
Within the hour Trixie was ready to write a poem with a happy trend.
Mt style is styless
words made from smudges and dots
like cots of baby robots
fraught with thought
a despot naught
stop
the game is afoot
is forever endless ?
or will this pain not stop
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