We humans can swim in water.
Water may lack but we remain humans.
Humans swim through choking dust.
Dust seals the chest with hefty agony.
Agony discomforts the flesh but profiles the drive.
Drive keeps the dying heart booming.
Booming, we sneak through rough stone.
Stone develops wings when we persevere.
Persevere the storm to disrupt the sky.
Sky twists before the incredible endeavor.
Poem by Mugisho NT
Wicked smile, turned dust,
Two halves of a broken soul,
Nothing left to chase.
It’s so nice under the carpet
In our cozy home of dust
I believe we couldn't get
Any better place for us
In our dust community
We are friendly, living free
Using ingenuity
The cleaners cannot see
Yes we heard the latest news
About other dust
They had nothing left to lose
And were tossed too fast
Right into the litter bin
Comrades, have a rest
Yes we’ve seen it all, we’ve been
In the East and in the West
What I found the most important
Doesn’t look so at first glance
Dust’s the only thing immortal
Tells about lives that passed.
I don't want to go my own way, Stevie
I want to rush through the weeds,
the thicket, the gnarls, the never-will-be trails
with you, sharper than machetes,
blazing our way backwards
on bicycles through hell
cutting ice sculptures in heaven
when we need a challenge
Time is an impatient bastard
on leopard legs
but you outdance Shakespeare
"Then I remember"
how your voice of silk and cactus cords
molded the clay into
what I would call me
"But if our paths never cross"
I will keep hacking away at stubborn verses
and insidious cucumber vines
that don't produce
All the guitars are weeping for you,
glorious gold
Now, let's tango time
across the moon
when i touch you
i am in a state of knowing
where i belong
it was all in the plan
the expanding universe theory
from quark-gluon hadronization
rushing into protons, neutrons, life emerges
a particle progression that would eventually
come to rest in the atoms before me
when i touch you
the photon epoch explains
why when i look into your eyes
i see the soul in that light
the door poets speak of
that gives it all meaning
there is no mystery to the universe
when i touch you
all the questions and answers
become one in that touch
where a rose stays a rose
a kiss quickens my heart, vivifies my breath
and so the wordsmith returns
to say in every romantic avenue
we are not promised paradise
it may come with a thorn or two
i will gladly wear such a crown
because i am forever grateful
when the cosmic dust settled
i found myself in your arms
beneath the stars, sun, and moon
created for you at the catalyst of time
Oregon 11/20/24
Dust on the Ground
Written, August 11, 2026, For Poetry Challenge: One-Syllable Words
Rules: All words should be one syllable.
August 10- August 16, 2026
*************
The cold night sweeps in,
the stars hide; the sky dulls—
wind hurts deep,
and dust coats the ground.
Pain is a wide cut,
weighs the heart—
with more beat,
tears fall slow,
while eyes weep.
Hope sparks bright,
warm lights rise—
hands stay tight,
dreams lift, then drift,
and fade from sight.
Light breaks dawn,
arms reach out—
peace moves soft,
home leans near
love finds its way—
and stays true.
The cards are thrown, the
whiskey shakes,
A lightning flash before it
breaks.
A heavy hand upon the chest,
No time to lose, no time to
rest.
Above the noise, the neon
scars,
It's written down inside the
stars.
THE SICKNESS AND THE
RIFF
The smoke is thick upon the
land,
With rubber stamps in heavy
hands.
The judges nod, the shadows
fall,
Yet something rises through
the wall.
So let the ceiling crash and
bend-
We'll dance until the very
end,
Where guitars scream and
tear the night,
And burning skies ignite the
light.
DESTINED IN THE SKY
It's no dark myth, it's no
design,
That pulls your hand right into
mine.
Past all the doubt and prison
bars,
We trace our names up in the
stars,
A blazing pulse, a quiet truth,
The reckless heartbeat of our
youth.
Dust motes drift~
slow
golden
weightless
as if the air itself is remembering something.
On a small table:
a glass of water
catching the beam,
throws a soft, trembling halo onto the wall.
Nothing else moves.
The moment glows
like it’s holding its breath.
To dust, The old boxes in the attic, the old toys in the basement, they turn to dust as they stay forgotten, the cotton rabbit going rotten. The boxes taped close, as if reopened they'd grow and Molden. the small bed in the room, needing dusting, the frames rusting and the sheets clustering. the pictures turned down, the stand broken and the glass broken, the frame cracked and dusted. The kid in this room loved it, but moved out for peace, getting a lease and building a life, new bed, new pictures, new boxes and new toys for the kids they had themselves, and soon enough that kid's room will dust too. Not in dirtiness but in affection, showing how much it was looked in, slept and cried in, and used. SO if you dust it don't throw out the boxes, don't resell the toys, don't throw out the broken pictures and please don't dismantle the bed, leave it to be, leave the memories fly around, leave it as a museum until the kid comes into that house, picking that same room, using that same bed, ripping those same boxes and playing with those same toys. To dust, is to love.
yet the truth of all
brilliance is the charcoal dust
up around the bend
Short note:
A soldier's last letter, kept in a golden pocket, never sent home.
The Golden Pocket
A muddy body sleeps in ash-grey ground,
Eyes open, guarding gold without a sound.
While fear and tears stain the paper’s skin,
Love is folded where the light grows dim.
Each word a bird that will not fly home,
And love rusts quietly in a soldier’s pocket alone.
Andrew Tate and his other brother got humbled today
Finding out about this brought so much joy to my day
May the government arresting them make them both pay
Women everywhere are sick of the things they always say
Fullfrem þæt þe ongynð~
for the deed half-wrought bindeth the doer.”
A doorway standeth open,
a broom set idle mid-task~
dust gathereth anew
in the slant of morn-light.
So it fareth with the inner toil:
the clearing, the tending,
the gentle shaping of what we yearn to become.
A single pause may wax into a season
if we lift not the broom again.
And when we heave the broom once more,
when we choose to finish
what we had set aside,
the doorway cleanseth,
and the way ahead groweth bright.
To dust
Or not to dust,
Is that even a question?
Housework calls,
But wait, just a moment-
Does writing call me louder?
To dust
Or not to dust,
domestic duties beckon.
I’ll swipe reject
and send it
straight to voice mail!
The wind that carries my soul
moves through the mists of time
sweeping all that lies beyond the horizon
toward the gates of forever
gates guarded by the breath of millions
who have turned to dust
their bones vanishing across life's tapestry
to feed the earth's endless cycle
of dust returning to dust
in the bottomless well of illusions
dreams rise and gather in the stillness of silence
drawing answers from wandering shadows
that drift toward the gate, seeking the unknown
there the dust of life rests
scattered upon sacred ground
waiting to be made whole again
shaped by love
placed in life's fiery kiln and reborn
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