There is more in the poet’s craft
than strings of words adorned in the trappings of poesy.
He sees beauty even in a simple thing,
unclothing it, giving it a new cloak,
and revealing the work of art trapped in its ordinariness.
His verses are not just exclamations
from a heart possessed by passion,
nor mere ramblings from a tormented mind--
both of which are of transitory nature--
but are precious moments
captured, distilled, and preserved
for what he hopes is eternity.
Like a doctor who discerns
every cell and tissue in the human anatomy,
the poet dissects thoughts and experiences,
breathes into them new life
and invites others to view them in a different light.
November 9, 2025
Among 3rd Place
Pen Something to this Prompt Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
The incisive probe of insight
dissects my life’s stratum of delusion,
the shards of shattered pretense
scatter as discarded debris,
the mind reminds itself to forget.
The blizzard of discontent blows,
my desolate heart turns
into a tree defoliated in wasteland,
far away from verdant thicket.
The sunburst day fades out fast,
dusk envelopes the twilight sky.
I don’t forget that the sun sinks
to rise again with resurrected radiance.
I wait for the heavenly hues of the new sun
to suffuse me with the gleam of sanguinity,
when from the dust of distress
I felt the Phoenix, concealed within so long,
rise in an instant for metamorphosis
in the divine dawn of regeneration.
Slide, barrel, firing
My life expiring
Carve peace into a bullet so its the last thing on my mind
'Cause what remains in the sky is our stars misaligned
The shrapnel from the meplat dissects my insides
My emotional integrity, treat like it was Alcides
I submit to you my mag of hatred
You load your gun and leave me berated
The echoes of metallic disparage on the concrete
Discard the magazine, rest it on my grave and replete
Disengage the safety, make your grip pirouette
In my mind you're already dead, your ballade des
Your body slumps, no longer recepts, self-sabotaged
The thoughts of us never escaped your mind, constantly collaged
A Poem a Day
Seems an obtuse way
To bring blocked feelings out.
What can I say?
While alone,
Hidden away,
I seek meaningful rhymes to think about.
What is the plan here?
The mystery?
The Plot?
How does this mysterious game strategy work?
After all, playing with words,
As every poet keenly knows
Can be rigged so that nothing comes out.
Is something more sinister in play?
Is there a twist in this plot?
A revelation, a purpose, only the game maker knows.
Or are we playing alone?
It is silly
How this poem a day
Dissects my mind, my spirit, my soul.
And in the end, this poet’s pen,
May have too much or too little to say.
However, this poet is sly
And begins to suspect, a ghost player is playing along.
A Masterful agenda, with plot, twists unintended,
Hidden within this game.
Words wasted, let loose, and scattered;
When brought painfully
back together
Can reveal the games truthful intent.
The ethereal purpose and loving power
Of words lost,
without order,
abandoned,
scattered,
unspent.
When set free
Reveals Heaven's poetry resplendent
Residing within this poet’s pen.
B is for Buzzard under my hat,
my brain meaty and raw.
His talons cling like puppet strings.
His rabid teeth chew and gnaw.
Ye old Buzzard, nothing warm,
just a cold sentinel of death.
Not like the life-giving stork —
impervious to the stench of your breath.
Your buzzard form like a swarm of flies.
The maggots mirror your childhood.
The terror of your bulky brig —
weeping under my wing - your no good.
The psychiatrist dissects my thoughts.
One by one he pulls the seething strings,
whilst the buzzard glares at the Rorschach.
Irritated by the smell of ink and pendulum swing,
the suicidal creature flees to the window, succumbs.
The gift of happiness and flamingos, pink,
from my mailbox to the farthest edge.
Quite merry, maybe a bit wild, I sip a drink
of cherry cordial and admire the pink rabbits*
spiraling out of control but perfectly neat,
in row after row of planted fluorescence.
F is for Flamingo - now my crazy world’s complete.
1/9/2019
Contest: Buzzards and Flamingos
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
Not a true story
*as rabbits multiply
The pen
is a sword
that slays
in skilled hands
it is a scalpel
that dissects
my own
however
is a blunt instrument
and it beats the truth out of me
He slowly sips every drop whilst he dissects the morning news
Coagulating cream congeals in his china cup
Coffee coloured rings form with every sip
If the cup was a tree I could tell its age
Written from observing a local man in our local coffee shop
He sits for hours reading the newspaper for free and makes his coffee last...
08-30-17
Belaboring visions so mundane,
a neurotic mind desperately dissects their simplicities
to the verge of lunacy.
Searching for answers to endless queries,
every banal image becomes an elaborate quest
as this thirst absorbs all rationality.
Frame after frame stored in limbo
until each pixel is analyzed for its significance.
Serenity grates this phobia of delusion,
this obsession of one’s visions.
The restlessness of it all brings on insomnia,
which leads to further dementia.
A coup de grace is contemplated,
but its reality lacks fruition,
for it too necessitates reason.
The normality’s of our days
languish in those with a wondering eye.
Youth doesn't stop to question if love is true,
they're eager to ignite passion's flame.
For; the need to belong outweighs their fears,
a desire so strong it's hard to ignore.
Sweethearts blinded by the aura of love
shun all reason as darkness zeros in.
For; the dazzling prospects of make-believe
tickles libidos; and mutes silent screams.
Doubt dissects happiness, exposing truths,
as reality tears your hopes apart.
And your heart bears the scars of betrayal
inflicted by promises, stripped of lies.
The hurt that love offers is troublesome,
debatably, more to shun than embrace.
And yet, under the surface of mistrust,
hope resonates with the beat of your heart.
The instigator relates, we cheer.
Deflates nay Sayers
The instigator retraced all fears
Detest all stares
The instigator dissects dialect
The instigator obliges his faith
What phase? The instigator
Emblazed freeze gaze.
Counsels full LAWS.
Legal eagle at the cause.
The instigator has
FAME No game.
The instigator takes flight
Ignites surprise
Do fly red eye
Nice GUY GOOD GUY
GOOD BYE
A moment comes along when talk becomes a whisper and give starts to take.
The moment dissects you wanting to know if your mind is weak and your heart fake.
You get a sneak peak inside yourself, a glimpse at what's at stake.
If you're unshakeable at the core or whether your core does nothing but shake.
The whisper is long gone leaving only all consuming silence in its wake.
You find yourself in familar company just you alone and a choice you must make.
Its possible you might buckle, or get pushed to the edge of near break.
Push right back or know the edge will see you again hungry for what else it can take.
Dead
Dead person does not harm
Or love any one
Why people scare of them!
After death
Surgeon knows dead person
Does not oppose
While dissects corpse
Difference between the dead
And slept is
One can speak
Another cannot.
All know this irony fact
Even cannot trust in that
Like in cinema role remains apart
People in life perform vast
With a fact along belief of act
Thus the life rolls on rolls on
Until fate defaces task
So in time keep with tact of nature
And forget to fear with dying act
Surgeon knows dead person
Does not oppose
While he dissects corpse.
With the sun in the forceps
Of an ageless night,
The bells at the lighthouse toll
Until they are merely sterile
Breaths.
Occasionally, a ghostly whisper
Validates and dissects
Each tear, each truth.
I can't imagine their loneliness-
watching light burn
Until it is as small as a flea,
While we endure engulfed
In light,
Principals of refuge
And shadow.
She's in the mood
But everyone is playing
She'd play too if she could
But she's just praying
For someone to listen
To a concert of words
She plucks like chords
A harmony when written,
As she conducts her pen
Like a scalpel she dissects
The truth of her life and then
She spills onto all her secrets
Dark and many;
Entrenched and heavy;
But she's digging
Fighting and kicking
Through the black tar
Layers laid thick
Seen at a glance from afar
And brick by brick
She cracks the walls
Widening the halls
She's writing through
To break a smile
And not be blue,
This will take awhile...
The more I try to reassure my mother,
The more she suspects...
The concerns and cares I shoulder,
I conceal and collect.
Her ears keen to the notes I offer,
My anxiety she dissects.
Taking on more as I grow older,
Less her fear affects.
Understanding her and less eager,
I share all; she accepts, connects.
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