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
Nowadays people have forgotten to love.
Everyday people are changing girlfriends and boyfriends like changing clothes.
People have made love for business nowadays.
Nobody appreciates true feelings and Everyone is giving more importance to body and money.
Nowadays no one loves the heart, even though someone loves the heart but no one appreciates their love.
If both lovers are true lovers, then this society and their family never allows their love to succeed.
blue harvest dusk
gathers at the book’s edge~
I carry its questions
forward, each page leaning
into whatever waits
to be read
Oh, my first love,
Do not come back to my mind,
I am incomplete without you,
Do not be so unkind.
When your memory arrives,I break down from deep inside,
So many tears begin to fall,But from the world, they hide.
Now in the dead of the night,
Do not wake me from my sleep
Oh, my first love,
Away from my memories, please keep.
I remember when I saw you first,
A sweet, shy smile you wore,Deep inside your tender heart,Secrets lay by the score.
When you heard my promises,
Your eyes filled up with tears,
To meet me at my very doorstep,
You conquered all your fears.
Now with the help of these memories,
Do not make me cry and pine,
Oh, my first love,
Do not haunt this heart of mine.
I remember every single moment,That I spent right by your side,
I am searching for that home,Where your footsteps used to guide.
Who could ever understand my love?
You belong to me alone,Without you in this fragile life,
A dark shadow has grown.For your sake, my love,So much agony I bore,
Lest I make a grave mistake,This lonely heart can take no more.
Now staying so far away,Do not burn my soul apart,
Oh, my first love,Stop breaking my fragile heart.
Having a boyfriend or girlfriend is not love....But Having someone in your life on whom you have blind faith that even if you hurt them to the extreme they will still hold your hand and say:..."I was, I am, and I will always be yours"
That's Love ......
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.
Dusk leans low on the silver lake,
soft ripples quieten the day’s heartache
each fading gleam a vow to make,
night gathering light’s last refrain.
Hush folds over the garden; something unseen rearranges ligt.
Shadows lean in unfamiliar angles listening for a name.
By nightfall, even the world knows--a presence has stepped through the veil.
the painting breathes
a hush of pale blue dusk
settling over the river’s slow glass
snow drifts soft, unhurried
each flake a small wandering thought
finding its way down
the river holds the sky in a trembling mirror
icy but calm as if dusk has laid its hand
gently on the water’s pulse
bare branches lean inward listening to the quiet
to the soft descent of winter’s silver breath
and in the distance light fades
not abruptly but like a memory
loosening its hold
the whole scene rests inside its own stillness
a moment caught between
f
a
l
l
n
g
and reflection
Leashed to your dusk,
I journey with you into your night.
I see the monsters you fight,
and I understand the rhythm of your evenings.
I journey with you to the field at twilight,
Where you sing spiritual songs.
We enter an ethereal realm,
a place where broken wings are mended.
We walk by the shore in the twilight glow,
your smile like a thousand watts brightening a dark alley.
My tortured mind finds calmness,
and my troubled heart emerges from the depths of darkness.
I will find you beyond the stars,
when time has greyed us,
when we’re separated at the twilight of days,
Becoming bodies of rays.
June 20, 2026.
Oh nightingale,
you rise like a small anointing in the dusk,
your voice a trilling psalm of love and lament.
You carry the mystique of prayer on your wings,
a feathered liturgy drifting toward the listening sky.
Oh nightingale,
you sing from the chalice of stillness where God whispers,
your syrinx a cipher of creation teaching silence to awaken.
You carry ancient wisdom in your throat,
a feathered oracle scripting prophecy on the wind.
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