Hordes of tiny fish
Nibble at the strands
Dark marmalade feathers
Undulating seductively
Calling all fish
To belong, be part of
A hidden totality
Under the glazed sunlight
Hazarding the shadow
Squeezing through the murk
Feeding our way in
Imagining light
Believing in everything
Eating the darkness
Mouthing the mass
Chemical collages draping the shape
Of a rusting onion
With nothing to say, but
Enjoy your meal.
Darkness falls and veils the land,
draping the mountains in a velvet cloth,
creeping as the tide along shoreline sand,
this darkness black, by the night is brought.
Nothing can withstand it, but falls before,
nothing can fight it's vicious onslaught,
forcing itself upon one, into the heart does it bore,
this darkness black, by the night brought.
Trapping and snaring in its perfection,
its beauty and glory by one sought,
who strives for purity, without direction,
this darkness black, by the night brought.
One cannot resist it, it's enticing onslaught,
this darkness black, by the night brought.
Contest: When Words Speak For The Silence Of Art.
Sponsor: Silent One
Date: July 8th 2026
The Artwork: Water Lilies
The Artist: Claude Monet [1919]
Oh to float amongst the Lily Pads
in Claude Monets Water Lily scenes!
Those platforms for the Lilies gently bop and sway as they rest upon the river lulled to sleep in a lapping lullaby...
A soothing blend of greens, purples and blues - a dreamers combination of relaxing hues. In some paintings the draping willows open up the scene. The pink and yellow Lilies welcome in the admiration of eyes....
Oh to float amongst the Lily Pads and breathe in this peace...
To blend in with such beauty and tranquility...
My smile joins the Water in its reflection of heaven....
Oh to float amongst the Lily Pads in Claude Monets Water Lily scenes!
I feel a cold rush of wind against my skin
as dark clouds cascade across the sky
saturating my eyes with an ominous promise
of what's to come
light flashes in the distance
a deep resounding sound rolls toward me
in a loud gathering force
I am immersed in the oncoming storm
and its powerful unforgiving nature
churning the blood in my veins
binding me to nature's violent vibrancy
I'm no guest cowering in fear, rather a participant
in its reality
about to break open above the earth
with a burst of energy
I breathe in the scene of visual sensations
and dream of being windborne with the clouds
finding unity with this tempest
draping the world in a rumbling atmospheric darkness
The illustrative sky painter,
Draping celestial seascapes,
Aurora, the nighttime dancer,
Stream across the penumbra stars,
A spectral emerald curtain,
Whispering cosmic enigmas,
A scintillating, breath-filled awe,
The North’s energetic spirit.
The radiance of sunlight glistens upon a trickling stream,
whilst cotton candy clouds float in the turquoise skies.
Floral scents dance on playful breezes,
as the warmth of a midsummer day blankets the emerald moss.
A weeping willow waits just past the expanding horizon,
among paths of primroses and lavender.
Beneath its draping branches lies a small earthen grave.
Etched upon a smooth piece of granite reads:
“R.I.P. Cheesesteak. In this life your soul may have been bruised,
but in the next, you will soar with the stars.”
All around, smoke ribboned from ashtrays
and mushroomed on the stained ceiling.
There, in the corner, F. Lee Bailey glared,
like a father watching his ill behaved children,
but, as children do, they ignored him.
Irving Kanarek leaned on the far end of the bar.
He was equally ignored,
as barristers sought their pecking order
in a gaggle of egos.
Over the bar a sign hung, "The Bench",
where ironically, the bartender, in jest,
would be asked to "judge" the winner of some petty spat.
Conversation was tediously interrupted as night progressed,
"Objection your honor,l he's badgering the witness"!
"Objection sustained" would ring out from behind the bar,
but amidst all the pseudo legalese, a pall hung ~
draping down the walls like smoke.
They must laugh for sanity but
the killer set free, who would kill again
became the dragon in the room
that would follow them home...
Note: F. Lee Bailey defended the Boston Strangler. OJ Simpson and others
and Irving Kanarek defended Charles Manson
184021
a thousand roots, and oh to one
i have seen your bark split open
and i know the ache you call rot
but what i see is not decay—
it is softness where light
has finally found a way in
the moss creeps gently
not as a thief, but as a witness
draping your arms in green silence
tending to the cracks
like a prayer, slow and deliberate
they will say a tree is only worth
its shadow, its shelter, its fruit
but i know the truth—
you are worth the space you hold,
even when no one remembers the seed
not every wound is ruin,
not every hollow means hunger
sometimes what looks like ending
is simply a resting place
for the breath that carries us forward
so bend, willow,
bend until your branches touch the earth
and let them whisper this:
there is no rot in you—
only moss, only time, only life
A songbird sings of morning glory,
twittering homage to Dawn's first light.
And ebony shadows fade to shade,
as they lose the protection of Night.
The sun rises from a scarlet shroud,
draping itself in a golden hue.
And climbing above Earth's eastern rim,
Sol paints the sky a robin egg blue.
Blood tints the clouds cotton candy pink,
as the heart of Night is pierced by Dawn.
And color is soon fully restored,
while dew sprinkles glitter on the lawn.
Butterflies and bumblebees awaken,
as a new day slowly fills with sound.
And Hope renews with every sunrise,
it's not lost; it's waiting to be found.
When tint of duskfall weaves through a cloud
I spill lacquered paint on bays, ashore
my gold-red shades draping sand. Endowed
with citrine flame of sky , I soar:
Call me ambrosia too. Just outside,
nectar drips from marmalade nights
honey and cantaloupe bless my glide--
O I'm there...when slice of dawn alights !
Some say he's a prophet
others swear he's the son of God
Some say he was just a man on a good mission
still others say he never existed at all.
I think he was the original hippie
a supreme giver -who taught takers
how to give without motive
how to love without condition
to ask for forgiveness after sin.
Jesus would have stowed away on slave ships
salving hope and snapping chains.
He'd have blocked the ovens of Auschwitz
volunteered at no-kill animal shelters
and food pantries.
He would've made manna out of bullet casings...
arrested again, again and again
bashed upside the head and bleeding.
Weaving a giant peace sign and rosary
draping them over the Pentagon, Kremlin
and the Forbidden City-
He may have shared a wineskin, a bowl of Mexican gold
then lie down under tie-dyed sky and dream in colors bold.
Or he would have been the only sober one
getting everyone safely back to home.
I crossed the archives as one walks through a field of ruins.
Decrees were bones, dogmas were nails.
Kings signed treaties in ink darker than darkness, a pact forged in daggers.
Papal bulls oozed blood beneath God's varnish.
Codes etched the systematic animalization into stone.
They legislated hell, administered suffering, theorized the slaughterhouse.
Even science became an executioner,
draping contempt in formulas and measured skulls.
I didn’t read history,
I breathed it,
its ashes glued to my lungs,
its screams wedged in the margins.
They crucified continents for their gems,
their plantations, their ores, and their silences.
They told me: progress.
But I saw boots pressed to throats.
They told me: forget.
But the graves still speak.
They told me: democracy.
I saw tanks circling the ballot boxes.
And you, West, with your carnivorous grin,
you demand forgiveness without returning the bones.
You scream values with your pockets full of plunder.
You dress up your hunger as mission.
You baptize your rape as liberation.
You persist, you insist, you gorge yourself.
But our memories are neither dead nor tame.
They sharpen.
Climbing cotton clouds float away
across canvas of summer sky.
Birds bathe in blue bay,
to amber nest they fly.
Autumn comes with golden spray.
Sunburst horizon’s chromatic drape drawn,
splits sunbeam in spectral splendor.
Sky spills colors of dawn,
air sways cinnamon grass slender
in malachite meadow, turning fawn.
The crown of topaz dew
shines with morn’s opaline glow.
Draping cinnabar garden with hue
sepia trees grip ground fallow,
leaves echo fall’s footfall new.
strands of silver green
Spanish moss draping from trees
swaying in the breeze
You were crafted from grace and intellect
A masterpiece of resilience, standing firm in your unwavering independence
Yet you have an innate desire
To be adorned with affection, cherished like royalty.
Let me be the jester in your court,
The fool who revels in devotion,
Showering you with laughter, draping you in love,
For your joy is the crown I wish to serve
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