innumerable hearts beating as one
a homogeneous whole as is the sun
is wherefrom one module makes its escape
that it may itself in love and light drape
as being-ness not as an attribute
fragrance divine which then does contribute
by adding to what’s already complete
wherein each throb is a unique heartbeat
At the edge of summer the rainy squalls disappear,
north winds flow gently under the sapphire sky clear.
The drooping leaves of the thicket trees wake up to its call,
don the auburn drape before they wither for the final fall.
The ivory brush of clouds washes the end-summer sky,
the birds bathe in the blue as from amber nest they fly.
Lining the cinnabar garden path the tawny trees stand tall,
in the rustle of the golden leaves they hear the fall’s footfall.
The dulcet dawn creates crystal crown with pearls of dew
for the bent blades of grass wrapped by tinge of russet hue.
From the horizon beyond the blue hills cotton clouds fly
like the fleet of sailing ship in the azure of the serene sky.
As the saffron sun sinks in the splendor of twilight hours,
the canvas of chromatic fall is painted with blazing colors.
The shimmer of the sunset sequins swathes my meadow,
I feel the gilded touch of the aureate autumn’s afterglow.
My silent senses whisper like the breath of autumn air,
articulate gratitude for the divine gift of rapture so rare.
Lightning, split slight stressors?
Roll, scissors, as you slide.
Questioners and confessors?
Xiphoid, clench. Trench, tide.
Vast and valid, vipers?
Onyx castle, blocks green.
Flippers, flickers, slick stripers.
Stone sabbath subterrene.
Quahog, quill, quincurion.
Quest quixotic quell.
Dark fire, drape the deadly dawn.
Wishing well, cell, gel.
Occultation, oculus.
Occipital bridge.
Holluschickie, thumb callus.
Rift riddle red ridge.
Oblivescent, oblocute.
Deny and forget.
Ladder, down the fiery chute!
Subtlety, snakebit!
Obtenebrous, oil, obtest.
Shadow, grip and squeeze.
Witness called? Will we protest?
Mad maze mysteries.
Obvolvent, ocarina?
As solvents chambers be.
Disabuse, Proserpina?
Why, good sir, that is me.
Halcyon heart, hatchet hold.
Digging for dead gold.
Luminescence? Leopold?
Mycelium, mold...
Somewhere along waxed moonglow,
he drifts like a sweet aftertaste
on my lips...those warm fingers teasing
my frail wantoness
that even the pale moaning of his flame
becomes a thunder in itself.
And what is compelling about the musk
of this star is how one gaze can enter into
my universe fondling hidden caves
when he heaves gentle gentle love;
raw as touches unbuttoning my cellar:
A hundred whispers drape mounds
of my peak that burns in oil
and I succumb, we entwine... so delirious
into the lucent, stormy beams of his arms.
Till the falling of evening, when again
he strokes laughter on my hair
to linger on my trails undressing
my skin with songs of flowers --
while the malleable lightning in his irises
becomes utterly silent...tame.
Dust motes dance in the
moonlight where the rotting
porch boards moan beneath
my feet.
Thick, silver cobwebs drape
like burial shrouds over the
rotting, abandoned foyer.
A sudden, frantic squeaking
echoes from the floorboards,
followed by the scuttle of a
hundred hungry spiders.
The decrepit house breathes,
its wall pulsing with the phantom
sounds of distant, agonizing yells.
I try to retreat, but the front door
slams shut, locking me inside the
suffocating darkness.
Invisible fingers brush against
my neck, and the temperature
drops to a freezing, unnatural chill.
The screaming starts then- a chorus
of tormented souls trapped forever
within the cursed timber.
I run up the spiraling staircase,
only to find the hallway crawling
with grotesque, shifting shadows.
The walls close in as a deafening
shriek shatters the silence, and the
house claims another victim.
Now I am just another spectral
noise in the dark, forever screaming
in the spider- infested void.
At the edge of the Thar desert’s sandy festoon,
the train of the ancient Aravalli hills cascades
with the undulating landscape of antique dunes,
cradles joyous Jaipur, the pink city of Rajasthan.
On carved hill-top mighty forts’ stone walls splay,
wrap the pictorial city portrait with history drape.
Aligned through the sculpted ornate gateways
the orthogonal roads symbolize cubic cityscape .
The archaic forts on the chiseled hill crest
stand like the regiment of outdated sentinels
on the ramparts of the glorious olden times,
embedded in the wind-scraped craggy ridges.
The tinsels of drizzling moonbeam in satin nights
paint murals with stardust on concrete canvas,
framed as silhouette on the smoky desert sky.
I’m charmed by the charisma of this colorful city.
It’s not the inconvenience
the drab of the monthly drape
nor the showtime red but
the play within the play
the horror flick
the creature feature
The Swamp Bit**
The damaged frontal cortex
with the inflammation hits
Starring: The Amygdala!
“hormones laced with fists”
It’s been a psychological thriller
and it’s at its peak of suspense
I am embracing the climax
celebrating
The End
Quicker than life can blink, death lobs a bite
To end life's beauty with a startling jab
As swine rootling truffles, it stalks with might
Trapping motley, rich or poor to its web
Amidst pleasures, our finest hope they steal
And cast in vaults where upon we shall slab
And soils are strewn over without repeal
It’s a drab drape on our wound like a scab
Who can halt this dark implacable plight?
Even conjurors’ mourn this scaring blow
With grunts, in grief and so without respite
A lobbed spear from the earth's shady shadow
Would the hand of sorrow and death be nabbed,
Yet their clutch leaves the heart stabbed.
All Rights Reserved ©? 2022
Gratified be, in folds of your drape
If you choose to snitch anyhow
Your ending will not impress.
Life has countless slaps
If you will go prating anyhow
Your tongue will scatter and mess
Appetite without restraint
If you will go feasting anyhow
Gut churning is plausibly, not a curse.
Focus on things that truly counts
If you will go befriending anyhow
Dreams will remain, horizon reach
The portals of time will never wait,
Leaving unfinished dreams behind
To excel, it’s the work of grace
Cling to the maker and by his grace,
Then like a bough you hardly can fall
Sustained by his trunk of grace.
As the maker will flings sorrow,
You will prosper, resolute and true
And your work will outlive ages.
Rights Reserved
OLYMPICS ESCAPE
AROUND THE FLAG, WE CAN DRAPE
A WINTER LANDSCAPE
A shelter from the wind and cold
hearth-lit faces, friends new and old
A chair to drape my coat, a hook to hang my hat
where the ‘Welcome Mat’ means just that
A rest stop for a day or two
or an oasis with forever views
A refuge from weary doldrums
~ A pick-me-up for everyone
~ Entry for Tom Woody's contest of the Same Name ~
February 16, 2026
a place to rest
and wait for prey
a trap for the unwary
song of fairies
in the orchard
stealing stealing*
morning dewdrops
drape cathedrals
in the chapel
stolen kisses
in the orchard
in the moonlight
*Song of Fairies Robbing an Orchard
~ Leigh Hunt, circa 1840
I'm scary summer visit once a year
with fierce countenance I always appear
Dry up all sources by sucking water
Day by day shoot up hotter and hotter
My infant days warm, cosy, and cheerful
when days pass by, I turn into fearful
My aura haunts even after sunsets
And the suffocative weather upsets
Burst opening the charcoal doors of night
Emerge with the gleam of chandelier light
Like a vicious dragon, I diffuse fire
None dares to encounter my severe ire
My scorching and charring hot weather chokes,
Squeezes, suffocates and perspires the folks
End to end whipping waves sprawled and enclosed
Everywhere stringent curfew terms imposed
Panicked birds stop singing and hide in trees
Tired cattle stay in shades of trees and wheeze
People gulp to quench their enormous thirst
Scared veterans shut up indoors coerced
Light and simple cotton clothes people drape
Lemons and melons to beat and escape
offering a fun they gather at pools
Enjoying ice-creams children bunk their schools
Place : 1 st
I drape your darkened night in sheets of white,
Making you shiver under my dense flakes;
To hide your blighted roots from mortal sight,
I pour my drifting crystals in your lakes—
Your whispered warmth in return is all it takes.
The wind I fashion blows with silent chill;
I bury all your tender skin in wool.
Your fun, I shift beside the fireside’s thrill—
Warm drinks I set by your warm hands to pull,
Though I creep cold-footed, still my smile is full.
I hide the tilling of your soil beneath coldness,
And blight in the seeds of your barn I heal,
So that your planting season stands clothed in boldness—
A whispered promise I set beneath your heel,
While from the sky thick drifting flakes I steal.
My mission finished, then I give you way,
For grace in me to meet the gentle sun,
Who dries the sweat concealed in warmer day
And widens paths for open-fielded fun—
But not until my quiet work is done.
War prowls not in nations ,
but along threads we cannot see,
stirred by men afraid of being small.
They hide behind heavy drapes…
Blind to the dust they leave behind.
Egos puff up and snap with each word,
sparks falling into fields,
that never asked for fire.
Voices puff themselves up like proud birds,
words flicker over dry tinder--
pauses yawning wide for disaster.
Ego, restless as a fidgeting child,
tugs at the world until it tips and leans, laughing,
chuckling as cities lose their balance,
holding on tighter
until Hope folds in on itself and retreats into shadow.
And still they feed it,
men who drape themselves in wrath like armor,
bowing to Force as if it held a crown.
Victory casts a faint , weary smile
while the World leans aside,
guarding its secrets in silence.
The Selfish Egos of War
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Contest Judged: 1/11/2026 6:54:00 AM
( 1st Place )
Written: 11/29/2025 (Don Mueang)
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