shadows drift
arriving first where
daylight leaves,
wait calmly
like they realize something
sun has forgotten
You came into my life like a star
And filled my heart with joy
You took my pain as if it was yours
And gave me love that no one could.
You gave me a shoulder to cry on
You were my pillar when I was falling
You were my strength when I felt low
With your smile, you made my living on earth worthwhile
upon one thin reed
a small sparrow balances dusk~
gold ripples below.
the lake holds the sinking sun;
silence steadies both of them.
River bends westward.
Cottonwoods burn softly.
One crow crosses flame.
Light clings to treetops.
The day forgets itself.
Shadows inherit.
O fall, let this lore of love be the last...
as your tight, chaotic grip holds me hostage.
Don't count against me my downfalls,
but the endeavors that have stitched the fabric of my days.
Still, this mask of anguish shapes its heavy cry,
wrapped tightly against the core of myself—
absent of mercy, mocking that pure moment in time
that allows us mortals to be human.
Yet, neither dusk nor dawn can delude me.
They try to imprison me, and hate may fill me with sorrow,
but the flame carried within shall never be dismissed—
a hunger not easily satisfied, refusing to die.
Discarded, a silent alchemy works in the dark.
I am the fire the shadows could not smother;
I turn the leaf, rewriting every page,
rising far above the ashes of my pain.
Last standing—strong,
amidst the dust and foliage of farewell!
Note: AI-image generated to visually reflect my poem's themes. Written for the "Leaves of Life" poetry contest sponsored by poet Hiya Sharma.
I carry a river-glass charm in my palm,
its soft glow catching the last saffron of dusk.
Above me, wandering stars loosen their paths,
drifting as if nightfall were teaching them courage.
The charm warms slightly when I lift it,
a small pulse, like water remembering sunlight.
I walk on, early autumn nightfall opening around me,
and the stars — bold in their quiet way — follow.
Neither dusk nor dawn can delude me,
says the leaves that fall in the autumn.
Everywhere they are feeling the earth and the soil.
All these days, from a height, they have seen it.
It’s now the time to touch,
feel,
and be part of the earth
with their skin upon it.
The leaves of the trees
happy to be with the soil,
but a longing and a miss—
its mother-like tree
and its caring branches.
But nearing its roots
is like strength gained.
Though dried its colour,
the coarse nature of texture,
and the experience of being green all round,
and now the season of autumn—
the evening in their life.
And these leaves
always add life to our lives.
As humans,
we enjoy watching the leaves change colour,
turn different from the way they sprouted—
still they serve us humans.
And neither dusk nor dawn can delude them.
They are from nature
and always remain as one—
though autumn or spring.
/Boom Bap Reverie
Crates cracked open in dusk-lit basements/
Needles tracing dust on grooves of gold, Soul samples looped—forgotten statements resurrected from wax, stories retold/
Basslines thump like city heartbeats, Hi-hats flicker, snare drums snap, old school wisdom in concrete streets, Cyphers ignite in a boom bap trap/
Chopped horns echo in subway tunnels, Scratch of vinyl, a DJ’s prayer, Freestyle poets, words like funnels pouring truth in the midnight air/
Apollo Brown dreams in sepia tones, Soul-worn records, crate diggers’ pride, Underground kingdom, built on bones of legends who never died/
So, spin that hour of rare instrumental. Let nostalgia ride the groove in every sample/ Hip Hop's past is still on fire/, and hip hop’s spirit finds its truth/
a single breeze slips by~
a warm hush of late day
carrying light the way
memory drifts~
quiet, unhurried.
They wait in the field
like small, round stories
not yet told~
each one holding its own shade
of late-season gold.
Wind moves through them
with the gentlest authority,
nudging their vines,
reminding them
they were once blossoms
that believed in light.
A crow strolls past, unimpressed.
Pumpkins don’t mind.
They’ve learned the art
of being quietly magnificent~
content to glow
without asking for applause.
By evening, the whole field
softens into a kind of chorus,
each pumpkin offering
its patient brightness
to the coming dark.
And you can almost hear them,
those round, humble lanterns
of the earth,
whispering,
<>
The summer of 1961 stays with me in small, steady ways. Bare feet on hot Texas sidewalks, jump-rope songs drifting between houses, mothers calling from screen doors—all of it part of the quiet world I grew up with. The box fan's low hum, the sharp crack of ice trays, the porch light warming the dusk—ordinary things that felt like the neighborhood holding itself together.
Rock ’n’ roll floated out of transistor radios, bicycles waited in the yard as if they knew we’d be back, and fireflies stitched their brief gold through the evening. I didn’t realize then how memory was already gathering these moments, saving them without asking. I only knew the slow stillness of night settling in and something larger than childhood holding me close.
dusk in my bones~
old summers rise like prayer,
soft and unbidden
blue harvest dusk
gathers at the book’s edge~
I carry its questions
forward, each page leaning
into whatever waits
to be read
daylight dims, sun drowns
darkness deepens, light beams drift
devilish shadows dance
dusk descends, daredevils debouch
drowsy dachshund dozes
dahlia dreams dash or dawdle
dreamy dusk dazes and dazzles
I sit near my gate
The dusk wind bends the tall grass
My old shoes touch dirt
For Nette Onclaud's Eight By Eight Poetry Contest
Written: Aug. 2, 2026
Folded in fog of muted white
a drifting veil within our sight.
The willow breathes a muffled myth
to dust the dusk with autumn pith.
It blurs the chalky bone of mounds
and hems the sky in shadowed shrouds.
It steals the wholly shape of sounds,
then leaves the soul in dew-tranced shrills.
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