Walls, themselves do
Tranquilize you.
Daubed of what, drawn in by
Frames whose escapes
Burst the present
Hushed dread's consent.
A set of bright, airy
Wet-ran landscapes.
Drab life-walks, through a method
Unforeseeable is
Re-daubed and re-enlivened;
None to call fate miss.
As these, on the way to where
As such times forget!
Which old friend or which new flame
No sooner have met.
The nadir of insanity, is engendered by a
controlling
Humanity, who on impulses of awareness
of mortality in all fairness.) Does
Propulse their very thinking.? And with efforts always plinking.' Whilst in despair and never blinking, dazelled by much lighting, and daubed in cosmetics..Its all rather frightening, and might well effect actions of health and thought connection.' Always dealing and extruding confidence
As precluding any workable continuam there is great proclivity, to? To? I'll term it
' turbo-binning ' as the waste of all their intense-ity.. biights earth and heaven with monstrosity's there is no
end to in truth; just 'oddity's' A 1970s car i'm told fired away.? I
Fail to see there beauty.. Rather insecurity its somewhat sad.. I sense, just some thoughts today.' As lost in denial.' Of reality (and certain files?) Not to mention trials.. They tinker with vials..Containing whatever.? Will make them. Younger;
ever clever clever.? To me its real alien, and why direction is failing.'
Its a loop despair ' and deep fear it seems that that drives them to eventually no-where.'
Daffodil-daubed; Lilac-limned;
It blows, and nothing blurs for
The colouring matter.
Save but when each tear-streak through
We honour what's seen anew
Of God. That 'old master'.
In lands of sun, a city stands apart,
A rare and misty jewel of human art.
Not built on easy plains or common ground,
But where the sea and golden hills are found.
The fog rolls in, a phantom, cool and grey,
To shroud the towers at the close of day.
It moves like the past, through the single gates,
A whispered mystery that the hour waits.
Its hills are vertical, a winding dream,
With cable cars that climb against the stream.
Victorian houses, daubed bright and bold,
A story in each cornice, we are told.
Where tech and grit in restless union meet,
And every vista feels, a brand new feat.
From Coit’s peak to the bridge’s arching wire,
San Francisco sets the rare soul on fire.
A compact wonder, singular and grand,
The rarest city in this western land.
long, the shadows with morning dew
herringbone clouds like gossamer lace
airbrushed above on the blazing blue
blooming as morn on your angel face
sunrise enchanter with skin, unleaven
tenderly daubed with a kiss ... of heaven.
November 7, 2025
For the “Bite Size Contest Number 127” Poetry Contest
Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor
God created universe for the love of Muhammad
Created sun and moon for the desire of Muhammad
Said be and was universe, written all from start to end
Recited Quran as a whole, for the glory of Muhammad
All saints had come, to mosque their faces daubed
Said word of testament, for the noor of Muhammad
Companions had conquered, next ones emulate
Eight heavens laid out, for the love of Muhammad
At skies birds flied, montanes and stones watered
Trees gave fruit, for the love of Muhammad
Infidels had come, from him they took faith
Prayed five times a day, for the love of Muhammad
Jonah praised cause him Quran praised
Remember and say Salawat, for the love of Muhammad
Written by Dervish Jonah (Yunus Emre)
Translation Onur Ünlü
The fate of a crayon, it waxes and wanes,
From the engrossing grip of an artist's hand,
To a still life framed in a box of chains,
Where unmade strokes are jailed till scanned.
The sky was never cast so blue of hue.
The grass and trees so blushed with green.
The sun so brightly yellow and true.
Than when crayon pastels daubed the scene.
Each crayon remembers its last lip kiss,
Soft and compliant, in a sheath of dreams.
Kept concealed and wrapped up in bliss,
To enliven dull scenes with vivid schemes.
So unleash the dreams you've put away,
In a boxed-set of crayons for a rainy day.
You won’t see these words
in a shop window
printed across a smiling face,
or scribbled upon a wall -
they will probably never be daubed
on toilet stall doors either.
Deep and meaningless words
are generally reserved
for deep and meaningless poetry.
Works of literary art
that paint pretty word-pictures.
They are often well crafted,
but in the end
the reader is left hollow
wondering
why depth is so often presented
in such a shallow way.
You won’t see these words
in any book worth reading
or carved upon memorial stone.
You probably won’t see them
daubed on toilet stall walls - not yet,
for they belong to the internet
where such deeply shallow idioms
are encountered on the surface
of a running river of eye-eating white.
These deeply meaningless musings
do not offer anything,
not advice or any point worth taking,
nor directions or recourse,
not real help for your spiritual growth
or for any healing purposes
whatsoever.
You may try rubbing your libido
with the sounds they make,
but being only pretty words,
they bring little relief.
If you read them
a certain poetry may tickle your mind
for a little while,
then they will fade into an alphabet soup,
something canned and bland
just like the stuff they gave you
to eat as a child
thinking it was good for you.
Once,
I saw rainbows,
across the tear washed sky.
Their iridescent gleam
illumining the astral realm
and spilling down into the waters below.
Buds burgeoning on every branch,
Flowers opening their delicate folds,
and summer bees spiraling around,
gathering nectar for frosty days.
Saw radiant smiles gleaming past,
angelic babes’ innocent face,
Men toiling from dawn to dusk
going about their lives’ odyssey,
Speeding vehicles moving down
as ants, in an unbroken chain,
Nature, posing from time to time
in silken green, amber gold
and in dazzling white
Everything fleeted past,
as through the window
of a speeding train.
Neither did they linger long
nor were they daubed bright
in paints variegated,
on my mind's impressionable canvas
to call them back to mind at will.
I lived my life in acute haste.
Colors, shades and myriad scenes
passed me by as common sight
But now with a heavy mist blocking out my sight
and an inexorable darkness
covering me like a shroud,
plunging me, all of a sudden, into a perpetual night
where sun beams never again shall fall,
I realize with a jolt, how much I have missed
and how much more I will miss!
eye
wide
shut
feel
remmber
mold
make
manifest
in touch
with
linear
continuty
juxtaposed
wrinkles
smeared
daubed
rubbed down
accidents
to.
engender
the new
I have little to say
as an avalanche of maple
spills over the back fence
and water weighted branches,
heavy with the perfume of rain,
bow and bend
in a slight breeze
and the dry throats of hollyhocks
are quenched and dribble
an excess down
stems that yesterday
stooped and wilted
under a hot sun.
And what can I say
as a profusion of green glistens
in the early morning light
and leaves wear a fresh glaze
in the cool air. How everything
has changed, gorged now
on an infusion of wet
as I walk under the trees,
daubed and dabbed
with rainwater, feeling
the sweet damp of a joy
left here as it was
passing through
late last night and now
whatever I could say
would not be enough.
After the rain,
came the smell
of rain
as the earth
vaporized its
pleasure at
its renewed
fecundity
felt deep within.
The musty scent
of dampness
loaded with aromas
and fragrances,
wafted up from
damp organic stuff.
Wetted by drips
and drops, and
scattered splatter spots
daubed on the
parchment of
dryness, the smell
of rain arose,
in a spiral,
curling upward.
The stone shoulders of the waterfall
are covered in graffiti,
letters and symbols daubed onto
small cliff faces
Gang tags I guess; covert proclamations.
Apparently Janice loves Bret also.
Yet it is a pretty place, and the water falls
as sound and light
not too loud nor too bright
a fall and flight
that delights the air.
The stream bubbles and swirls for a while
then meanders away
crossing a stretch of bottom land
forgetful of any plunge or spill.
I don’t really notice the graffiti anymore
it has ingrained its presence into the scenery
I watch only the falling water
how it splashes upon itself
creating its own watery language;
how then when it wanders away
seemingly well pleased with what it said.
I can intuit the ubiquity of that aqua-patois,
a fluid eloquence flowing over silence.
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