When the night whispers your name
The silence between heartbeats
Dreams woven with stardust
Under the light of the milky moon
Every sunrise holds a promise
When the wind carries secrets
Lost in the echoes of time
Shadows dance under the moonlight
When the ocean meets the sky
In the quiet of the morning dew
The warmth of forgotten memories
In the arms of a gentle storm
When raindrops tell their stories
Lightning whispers across the sky
Embraced by the first snowfall
Under a sky painted with dreams
The melody of a distant past
When love blooms in silence
Through the lens of a fading photograph
Where do we end?
With a new beginning.
My first approach to this contest
Was to write an Acrostic Poem.
It was written but not posted. I later
Decided a different more direct form.
Contest: Later Than Witchcraft
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
Witchcraft has a distant past;
A strong present;
A doomed future.
Witchcraft, is a 'No No' from God.
The future is in God's head and heart.
Time and space are in His hands.
Our future is in his hands, not in the
Readings of the palms of our hands.
Lustfully seeking earthly fortunes is unwise.
Our fortunes are not known by fortune tellers.
Christ is our hope, our fortune, and our future.
Reading and believing the Bible is reasuring.
It will enable us to avoid deception and false hope, which is the hallmark of witchcraft.
In time, the future will be known by us all.
She doesn't remember her son.
She lives somewhere in the distant past.
She's happy, that's what counts.
AP: 2nd place 2026
In the dim and distant past, i cycled around
Slow and fast, past sleepy houses, on small city blocks.' In the morning fresh when its not yet hot ' sometimes a daring
Cat shot in front, aloof and sleek, no play for me then on bots..I recall the rich sent of
Fresh cut lawn, before the day would swallow, this placid morn' i recall milk bottles sitting on front door stoops, as pidgeons scattering, as the hawk broke loose, out a of a blue yonder, with whistling
Wings, echoing the sound of my bike wheels, as i turn for home i hear the church
Bell ring.'
like and ancient relic from a distant past
the faded carbon copy of who he never was
a meaningless error in the history of humankind
and yet there is hope of finding out truths
about life suffering miracles and mostly himself
Somewhere in the distant past, it stole my heart;
Time before it’s eating added to my girth.
It is not a fancy cupcake, pie, or tart.
Could it almost be the best dessert on earth?
Kings and Queens, I hear, they eat it on the sly.
Yattering with little princes over Chai.
Tasted better how my grandma used to make
On our weekly Sunday visits to her house
Following a juicy barbecue of steak;
Films of Western heroes, and of Mickey Mouse.
Every other Sunday, we all did the same.
Except when I was ill, which was such a shame.
Perhaps these were the favorite times I knew;
University was sticky pudding-free.
Darkened days in military eating stew;
Diet of a beer and pizza on settee
In a cold and dreary bedsit south of Kew.
Now, these days, I can consume it when I wish;
Grandma’s famous sticky toffee pudding dish.
There is a quiet, silvery lane
Where I go walking when the day is done,
Ignoring the arrogant, bright sun
To seek the ghosts of what might remain.
They do not dazzle, they do not burn,
Just faint impressions on the velvet vast,
Whispering secrets from a distant past,
Waiting for a gaze that might return.
Perhaps it is folly, this tender, lonely quest,
To chase the shimmer of a spent desire,
To sit beside a long-extinguished fire,
And hope to feel its warmth within my breast.
But oh, there is a solace in the grey,
A tender beauty in the muted glow,
A gentle knowing that I chose to go
Where only lingering shadows choose to stay.
The world demands a beacon, sharp and high,
But I am faithful to the softest gleam,
The remnants of a lovely, broken dream,
That refuses to fall from the midnight sky.
I guide my heart by lights that faded low,
Finding my way in the tender afterglow.
Jasmine scent perfumes the air
Under a canopy that’s enchanted.
Laughter sings love’s mighty praises.
Youth itself rejoices in all its glory.
Fiery sparkles in the darkness
Ignite the sky with joy and glitter
Regaling all across the land.
Effervescence and a playful sense of magic
Work wonders for the soul while
Orchestrating bursts of awe and childlike wonder.
Recalling extravagances of a distant past,
Kaleidoscopic visions vivid and magical ~
Surreal evenings forge longlasting memories.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2026
Do you sleep somewhere dreaming of our youth?
Does this stormy night flash upon your eyes,
and is that silhouette my figure
approaching from a far distant past?
Perhaps you recall our pet names
we had for each other, or have you forgotten
my face or even your own face back then?
Tomorrow a curtain may be drawn
closing the light of memory forever,
yet as you sleep somewhere
far from anywhere,
let me show you a twilit future
one that waits for us,
in that endless possibility
of once more.
Not fretting couldn’t be gladder about getting podgy?
Forgetting about a stodgy bladder that’s definitely dodgy?
Sadder even snotty about needing a potty..regretting being dotty
Betting some grotty grumps about bumps & lumps anything spotty
Sometimes memory stumps.. only remember embers now befuddled
Somehow the huddled cast of the distant past still cuddled
Ashes of once clear flashes of near yesteryear appear muddled
Ribald oracle.. grinning about going bald...hair thinning
Apart from the ears and nose where it shows..grows & flows
Can't pretend follicle foes & woes.. do descend dear friend
Clearer you're now nearer to the rear end than the beginning
Refined increasingly find you do become more kind
Other than the tumour of another baby boomer
Defined needy seedy greedy.. must feed me consumer
Not a rumour..increasingly I pined for candour and humour
Chaps can perhaps blossom as a wined & dined late bloomer
No remorse.. scheming larrikin leaning's still in force
Gleaning the gleaming meaning of life is all about giving
Dreaming.. loving.. smile beaming and "living" of course
Looking for Heroes.
This small country with a glorious past is so skeptical
of the present, a longing for what once was and
will never come back; a country whose songs echo
gentleness and sweet melancholia.
A famous sports star from the not-too-distant past died and
The country fell into a collective mourning that
seemed to go deeper than the legend´s passing, but
a profound unhappiness about the future itself.
This austerity imposed from the outside is like a chain
a vortex of misery swirling around, making the land
grey as the politicians who rule them. A country needs
It's sporting heroes, alas, the modern ones go and play
abroad, better pay, ok, but not the same, the legend
who died while playing for his country.
Living in shadows of times gone by
Are they real or just imagination
They flit by unable to be caught
Just like watching a flickering film.
There one moment gone the next
I see visons of days in Africa
Hot dreams of things that once
were every day happing's.
Like going on safari
hearing lions roaring
deep and gruff so close
You felt that you could touch them.
Swimming in the ocean
so clear one could see the bottom
fish flashing by through seaweed
fat slugs and blue jelly fish.
Nights that were nearly bright
as day time just a bit spooky
Shadows all around you
things flashing by.
Four a clock in morning
walking my dog and a tribe
of neighbours dogs that
joined us they were a pack.
That I had very little control
over, enemies at all other times
but woe betide any thing they met
they went like a pack for them.
These are just some of memories
taken from the distant past
I treasure these thoughts
of days long gone by.
Shall we once more, in mountains of our thought,
Gaze down upon the vastness of our ground,
And know that for the meadows newly sought,
The flowering fields shall not by us be found?
Shall we recall that bronze took place of stone,
And then in turn to iron did yield its way;
That ships of sail no more the oceans own,
And brilliant sunlight lasts for but a day?
Shall we, in embers of the distant past,
Remember living forms that brought our dawn,
But, by that gift of birth, their fate was cast,
And we the reason that their time has gone?
O, things shall pass, and it were ever thus:
'Tis more bitter, though, now that it is us.
The poetic image is not an echo of the past. On the contrary: through the brilliance of any image, the distant past resounds with echoes.
– Gaston Bachelard
If memories invade souls and minds,
and mirrors reflect perception,
it must follow that whispers
reach into our psyche,
replaying aural
collages that
echo of
distant
past.
Laughter of children and the dull clatter of small feet on aged wood. The congestion of men's voices with talk of crops, rain, and "remembering when". The faintly drowned-out sound of a stray hand unafraid to tickle long unused ivory. There, the aroma of well-planned dishes lay in wait to ambush and overwhelm the senses of those who will partake. The pride of a husband as his wife is washed in praise for her contribution. A communion of kind souls, the fellowship of close neighbors and friends. A vision carried on from a not-so-distant past. Where one could marvel at the magic of a fond smile and find comfort in a firm handshake that wordlessly informs, "you are a welcome sight".
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