He slides open a shallow drawer,
its wood catching slightly
before giving way.
Inside, the day’s minor slips:
a receipt with a transposed digit,
a label peeled at one corner,
a measurement off by the width
of a pencil mark.
He sorts them without hurry.
Each paper earns its place
only after he reads it twice,
sometimes three times,
to be sure the flaw is real.
A pencil rests near his hand,
shortened from use,
its point dulled by careful work.
He sharpens it only when needed,
never in anticipation.
Some errors he sets aside~
not rejected, simply waiting
until their purpose clarifies.
He has learned that small mistakes
reveal themselves slowly.
Near midday he finds one
in his own notes:
a digit written too quickly,
leaning out of line.
He corrects it without comment,
then files it with the others.
When the drawer closes,
the room settles.
Nothing finished,
nothing abandoned~
just consistency and
the quiet record
of what the world overlooks.
Crimson longings of Spring were cast on our ocean
Taking flight from the depths of Spring’s surging seas
As bridges we formed seeking love and devotion
We were under the spell of love’s potent potion
Focusing on each other’s wants and needs
Crimson longings of Spring were cast on our ocean
Love’s shine never dulled by life’s daily commotion
Our love thus strengthened by varied degrees
As bridges we formed seeking love and devotion
We remember those days in detailed slow motion
Love’s strong emotions bringing us to our knees
Crimson longings of Spring we cast on our ocean
Neither of us leaving was ever a notion
Our thoughts back then were each other to please
As bridges we formed seeking love and devotion
Growing old together enhances emotion
No regrets or mistakes for either to appease
Crimson longings of Spring were cast on our ocean
As bridges we formed seeking love and devotion
Line of inquiry: “to veil light we cloaked it in bliss then intellect and lower mind fused together as magnetism in form where truth we seek to find."
I begin with a brush~
the soft kind used for artifacts
too fragile to name.
The soil is memory,
packed tight around the thing
I tried for years not to touch.
At first, it is only a glint~
a shard of something once whole,
a brightness dulled by time’s sediment.
I lift it carefully, this fragment of self
I once buried beneath the practiced weight
of being who I thought I had to be.
To veil light, I cloaked it in bliss~
the easy kind, the surface shimmer
that keeps the deeper radiance
from burning too true.
Then intellect and lower mind
fused together, a magnetism in form,
pulling me toward every polished illusion
I mistook for truth.
But here, in this quiet excavation,
the ego loosens, a garment slipping
from the shoulders of a long-held fear.
I brush away more soil, and the glint grows~
not blinding, but honest.
A small pulse of light that remembers me
even when I forgot myself.
All of it,
For nothing.
The pain.
The sacrifice.
The trauma.
Trading my soul,
For -
The acceptance I never got,
My old self,
She died for me -
And yet im still hanging off the cliff,
All that hardwork,
And the cost?
A life I sold -
Not all that glitters is gold.
I straightened out her kinks,
Dulled her sparkle, dulled the way she thinks,
So she could fit in,
So she wouldn’t have time to notice her differences,
Or compare herself to the white kids -
The sun is also a star,
And yet comparison took her ability to see it.
She tried to be perfect,
But perfection isn’t pretty,
And in the end she became just like the giving tree,
A helping hand that was left empty
One face and two looks.
As unbridgeable
Each world in time's impression
Not relatable.
Smooth and sweetly pleased
When all is colour
To that rougher, hardened o'er.
Long aft whose dulled hour.
They found you in the dust behind the barns
A skittish spark with lightning in your legs
A diamond in the rough with uncut charm
All promise
All heartbeat
All raw edges
You burst onto the track like dawn breaking
Crowds rising as your hooves carved out a future
Every stride a prophecy every win a rumor
That greatness had been hiding in plain sight
Seasons wear on even the brightest stones
Your shine dulled not from lack but from living
From so many winning miles run hard
Expectations stacked like saddles on your back
Some whispered you’d lost your glimmer
That the sparkle they once saw slipped away
But diamonds don’t vanish they change
They carry their history in every facet
Every scuff a story every flaw a truth
And you Diamond Scuffle…
Still catch the light in your own way
Not the blinding flash of a rising star
The steady gleam of something that’s endured
You may not blaze like you once did
But you still shine
With the weight of everything you’ve been
A diamond still…
Just one that’s learned what brilliance costs
"O those!" Simply do sigh the old
And sense-dulled, among us.
Of wonder a revelation
We newly come upon.
To be bottled, placed in a book
Tadpole; dry pressed flower.
"Earth things". But whose worth's magic
Is, boy, girl-eyed cosmic!
Bare footsteps align
with a solid path
newly taken
Shadows of the past
are now bereft
In stillness, she allows
for her spirit to rise
to new heights;
her old pain
can no longer be felt
Envious naysayers
dulled senseless with
envy and spite
lower themselves
to permanent depths
Crab claws can't reach
Illspoken soured voices
exit the garden of the mind
For in sacred isolation
alchemy makes diamonds.
Recumbant redundancy
Came t'coil and careen 'round the rails of goosen flesh heels
Strained the frame of my mortal fallibility
And estranged mine name from the cankering collage of mine colleagues in arms
'ggressively agrieved mine mantled place and mounting crown
That hath e'er now oxidise down the stairs of mine life
Racked mine train and affronted frame of thought
For one was reticent in their regiment
Now, e'er dulled thee t'the dole,
O dewy-doe eye'd,
Such shall surely swallow thee whole
Haunted to pleasantries, t'the gaunt face before thee
None graver than the ashen grave 'fore I
Ghoulishly reposed, to enclose and envelope,
My writing hand loosen'd in a lousy attempt,
To evade, to prolificate, and feed the face of the market rate.
And with a bow, I shall forsake my latent escape
And one shall take their monthly crown, without rebate.
21//12//25
Irony has no place here; let true meaning stand,
Unmasked from deceit, that twists what should be known;
For truth is dimmed, when caressed by a shaky hand,
Hearts are dulled, when slow speaking in undertone.
We’ve learned to laugh to soften our doubt,
To hedge each word to lessen what's too plain;
This cleverness has worn our candor out,
Leaving us fluent in deceit, shame and disdain.
Now is the moment to speak plainly, completely—
Letting the twists unravel, before they're played.
With power serves made adroitly, sweetly and neatly—
To break the ingrained game our irony has made.
For to say upfront, what we mean, demands we refuse
to diffuse, bemuse, confuse, what we risk to lose.
How can you expect wisdom from people whose minds are dulled by the fumes of alcohol?
How can you expect respect from a creature whose only concern is satisfying his appetite?
How can you expect beneficial knowledge or good character from someone who falsely believes himself superior to others?
The hypocrite, the liar, the deceiver deserves no respect, and we must expose his true nature.
I wonder how much life am I forgetting
Which parts wandered and got lost in the fog
For each and every time my eyes start wetting
I ponder if I’m just remembering it wrong
I wonder how much of life is in a vacuum
Failing to break away from flat routine
Spent years in suffocation in a classroom
Dulled down to be a cog in the machine
The wispy sun sighs through my curtains
I’m not particularly prideful of my job
Don’t do great work like scientists or surgeons
I just create and close my eyes when it feels wrong
I doubt how much of life I’m living forwards
The weeks and ends get jumbled in my head
I try to feel it out and sketch the borders
But all my convolutions turn to lead
My thoughts are friction turning into vapor
Collecting it is in my adenine
Give birth each time I put my pen to paper
And when I die they’ll put my sh*t in a museum
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The dragon lies in its burning remains~
a furnace of teeth snuffed out,
its igneous breath hardening
into black, sooty scales.
You stand where the pyre was,
your sword no longer shiny,
dulled by ash and effort,
a weapon that did its job
asking for no acknowledgement,
no revelry.
This is how victory sleeps:
not in banners or ballads,
but in the quiet settling of smoke,
in the way your hands shake
when they have nothing left to hold.
The villagers will come~
they always do
to poke at the carcass,
to marvel at the size of
the dragon’s claws.
But you know the truth:
dragons are not slain by heroes.
They are undone by the stubborn,
by those who refuse
to become kindling.
And now,
with the monster’s heat
still radiating from the earth,
you feel the oddest thing~
the absence of its roar,
the space it leaves behind,
like a missing tooth
your tongue keeps finding.
you may read the accompanying memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/victory_over_the_fire-breathing_dragon_13612
O faithful friend with handle worn,
Through countless meals your blade was drawn.
You sliced with care my cheddar’s edge,
And glided smooth on gouda’s wedge.
Though newer tools now crowd my drawer,
None mastered brie or Swiss before
Quite like your wire, taut and true—
A gentle touch that cheese once knew.
I miss the whisper of your glide,
The ribbons formed, so thin with pride.
Time may have dulled your sturdy frame,
But in my heart, you keep your name.
So rest, old slicer, on your shelf—
No gadget bests your work or self.
For every slice and savory breeze,
Thank you, friend, for the gift of cheese.
Even if a fierce rain subdued at its core beats against me
do not open the window and welcome it
Even if a wind bowed and gently gathered comes seeking me
do not unfold the crumpled memories
Even if wrinkled years pull at my shoulders
like the ebb tide drawing away do not look back
When death like a mothers embrace murmurs softly
hold it while sharpening the dulled life
Fold life and death together
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