We spent the summer of '99 waiting for the sky to break.
The old seer had promised us a king—
not of crowns or gold, but of sheer terror,
dropping from the heavy heat of July.
People pulled what they needed from the ink.
Some swore it was the third beast waking up,
a fundamentalist storm ready to swallow the map,
while others just saw the familiar rot of politics
finally bursting into a global fire.
Either way, the dread sold a lot of paperbacks.
The prophecy became a ghost in the movie theaters,
a blockbuster specter we could safely watch
while pretending the end of the world was just entertainment.
The world didn't end, but the earth keeps shaking.
With every new war on the evening news,
every disaster that leaves a city in the dark,
somebody always dusts off the quatrains again.
We tell ourselves it's just a myth,
until the horizon bruises,
and we catch ourselves looking up.
Dread head plantain
the wind scatter your leaves
Breeze comes again
dance to the beat
Howdy - put this in your craw!
Tell your ma. Tell your pa.
Yes sir, you have my word -
verily, I'll pull my sword.
I'm the poet swordsman of Arkansas.
Golden Maple leaves
Skim along the pond's hard face
In the cold knowledge
That dreads with winter's approach-
Harbinger of snowy dunes.
Winner: 2nd Place End of Summer, Beginning of Fall Tanka, Tania Kitchin (Sponsor) 8/27/26
One thing I really dread
is getting out of bed,
but, when I do, I have so much fun
that when the day is done,
the thing I really dread
is getting back in bed.
I dread the summer
I don't know why
I love the flowers
And the warmth
Maybe I don't dread summer
Just the idea of not talking to you for two months
I think I dread the idea of getting too busy
One of us always doing something
Both of us just out of reach
Like the ocean stretching for the shore
Or the moon chasing after the sun
On second thought
I don't dread summer
I dread not seeing your beautiful face every day
I dread sitting around all day
Reminding myself of just a few weeks ago where every word you said made me smile
And everything in between
I'll miss that
I still have lots to write about you
Breath can be taken away by what’s beautiful, or something detrimental too.
Quote by poet.
* *
I was becoming breathless
as if a noose squeezed my neck
I'd lost my way in the park
with daylight becoming dark.
Overcome with dread and fear
wishing I could disappear
Then I heard an awesome sound
trees talking to me out loud.
Telling me which way to go
the way that the wind does blow
I felt love, answered prayer
guiding me from out of there.
* * *
When I stare into the crowd
I feel a pain so low
The uselessness I bear
Keeps me away from the glow
Walking around just to keep
warm during the day.
People so hostile saying get out of my way.
As night time approaches, we huggle up in the cold.
In some damp subway making me feel so old.
Rats keep us company their whispers filling the night.
Continuing for hours until the morning light.
Awakened forcefully to another dreaded day.
Picking up my belongings and being told to go on my way.
Hunger fills my soul with regrets from the past.
I really don't know how long I can last.
Carrying life's possessions all in my hands
Walking with no directions along this cruel land.
One of these days I may find my way again.
Until that time arrives, my soul will bear the pain.
I mourn your death, though you still breathe and speak,
No carved stone waits where your memory should lie;
I hear a silence where your laughter used to peak,
And rehearse your absence like a practiced goodbye.
There is no grave to mark the shape of your end,
No earth has closed where your shadow might remain,
Yet I still kneel where I imagine you’ll descend,
Tracing future hollowed out by unnamed pain.
I build you a coffin out of all I cannot say,
And line it with the seconds you have not yet lost,
Each one a small betrayal of a coming day,
Each one a quiet accounting of an unseen cost.
Your voice still stands, but I already hear it fade,
Like a room remembering the furniture gone cold,
Like iron slowly learning to degrade,
While no hand has yet dared to make the story old.
So I learn your leave before it learns your name,
And I grieve a shape that time has not agreed to form;
A future stitched from silence, woe, and borrowed flame,
Where I know no stone—only pain keeping me warm.
All this chaos you created, like a contagion you conveyed.
You cherish cunning and deceit, as you claimed.
Like a disease you spread your misfortunes and unsureness of the world that you lived in.
As a child I wished you were gone, as you beat me and belittled me until I bled.
This in your mind earned you your street cred, as you punished the people around you until you fled.
From the burdens and blunders that you dread, but dare declare an empty reply with that.'' Your sorry''.
All this worry and woe, tiptoeing around you- oh, how I must have misjudged you when you muttered,'' your sorry.''
Oh the worries cultivated a collection of complications, that piled up, needing a lorry to carry them around.
No, I won't shed a single tear from fear or pity, as I wish you were gone.
But it's okay for you to utter your hollow, 'Your sorry.''
He does not arrive
he claims the horizon.
The wind forgets its wandering
when his breath passes through it,
trees stiffen mid-whisper,
and dust, once arrogant in motion,
bows into stillness.
There is a weight to his silence
not emptiness,
but the crowded hush of command,
as though the earth itself
waits for permission to turn.
Muscle coils beneath a cloak of gold dusk,
each step a verdict,
each pause a question
no creature dares to answer wrongly.
He is not noise
noise is what follows him.
A trembling in marrow,
a ripple through the unseen threads
that stitch fear into flesh.
He does not chase dread
dread runs ahead,
announcing him in broken rhythms.
Even shadows hesitate
before touching him.
Even time, bold and tireless,
seems to shorten its stride
when he stands.
For power is not in the strike alone,
nor in the teeth of ending
it is in the knowing
that ending can arrive,
swift as a thought,
final as dusk.
And so the plains remember him
long after he has passed
in bent grass,
in held breath,
in the quiet confession of the living:
Some forces are not seen
only felt,
like thunder before it speaks.
She had been in a frenzy all week
Something weird was happening, she could not speak
She climbed in, and heard a tiny squeak
was it her nerve endings? They were at their peak
Her hair went haywire, her complexion was gray
She felt like a train had traveled over her all the way
Relaxing in a tub was not working out that day
Something horrible was about to come her way
In a distant thought, hear the murmur, the call
Rich colors of gray, indistinct shadows write
Black words, sting of grief, against a solid wall
While the darkness pours out a warning, the fight
Between hope and despair, a desperate fear
Rises in souls of those who know frantic fright
There is a nagging dread, calling with each tear
Anxiety climbs through those who understand
Tempting souls to doubt the truth of each prayer
Cancer’s rhythm can sometimes feel like sinking sand
What of those moments before cells multiplied?
This is a disease where nothing goes as planned
A curse word, a struggle, darkness will abide
muddle of cancer silences hearts who’ve cried
My oh my.
Blinding lights,
terrible, but captivating.
No more worries, child.
Breaking and entering,
broken bricks beneath the stable roof.
Thumpty, thump, thump.
A fireplace put out of its misery.
Contorting and morphing.
A twisted smile,
black blood falling from tear ducts.
This is the man who speaks in hands.
Tell me child,
What is your worst fear?
Shadow and frost eerily creep.
Syncopated waves of sheer cold.
On this joyful day in darkest night,
spirits perish when he’s in sight.
Oh child,
poor poor child.
Isolated in a snow globe,
deers, or Hell hounds?
I have friends for you child.
In the dark.
In the night,
on this night.
Surrounded by trinkets and spirits.
‘Twas not the place to be.
Drip,
Deadlines all down drains,
Friends blown off with seasonal snot,
Time racing by like raging runoff,
Drip, drip, drop
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