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.
In a state of despair
We were overrun by dusts
Languishing and in anguish
We longer for the rains
We prayed and we waited
Then the sky changed its
Rhythm from blue to dark
Nimbus clouds
The wind strong as a storm
In little trickles growing into
A barrage of ice and thunders
Alas the rains came wiping
Wiping away every dust
Bringing refreshings to the
Ground and the soul.
(Written on the 2nd of April, 2026)
Gun is fired
Friction-slick bullets heat the barrel shocking the shoulder finding a new place in its socket
Metal pellets rain like rain or hail
As opposed to paper pellets or those made of grain derivatives
How many glyphs exist?
Those recognized by some higher authority
And how many more are there that go unaccounted for?
I have a set of my own
It is smart to keep part of yourself unaccounted for
Keep it on pages buried in second-hand drawer chests
When does a spider's web become a cobweb?
How much dust has to fall?
How many days?
Can we quantify it?
Dusts rain like rain, not like hail
Or like bird feathers telling you something must've happened above
Something of note
I refuse to dust
To wipe away my calendar
Non-numerical calendar grids
Compress to fit into layers
Layers only distinguished by time of fall
Of rain
Of feather
Not by barrier, nor boundary, nor anything which can be marked
Only known
It is only known that upon waking from sleep or else what
That more dust is there
Or maybe that
The surface of my skin has changed
The fibers of my clothes are more worn
And gravity still complies with its law
Eleventh month when the Sun parched the toppled trees
Winds of South rallying on bended knees
Birds and beasts plunge on tarns and soft mountains
Running waters congealing like sedentary fountains...
Only one tree will stand tall
On Christmas Day as dusts and spalls begin to fall
Two days of live still pictures
On painted strokes and prilled erasures
One spark will clear the brume and waves of the unknown...
the hygge!
Home is down south and a little to the west
Where the flatlands,dusts, and winds are the very best,
Inside Texas resides the place of Lubbock
Where the sky and earth are a nice russet,
To live inside the bustling city
With the restaurants, shops, and big college building
Or out in the outskirts of town,
Where the farmers plant crops in the earth that’s dark brown,
Although it may not be a thrilling place to be,
It is what I call home and it means the world to me.
“When life morphs into a lively melody of song
happiness resonates with the symphony of mind" – Quote by Poet
In sapphire night argentine star dusts drizzle
as tuneful symbol of sequined essence,
adorn the pearl-laced tapestry of life
that spreads before me with splendor
in the baroque landscape of being
I traverse listening to soulful symphony.
The chromatic trellis of the rising sun,
weaves my diaphanous dreams
with the lattice of sanguine imagery.
The surreal strings design rainbow motif,
arching over the halcyon horizon,
lively concert charms me with vibrato of life.
In anguished times I turn the pent-up passion
into crescendo of psychic concerto.
On its sonorous whistling wings
I fly in the sky of euphoric sonata,
realizing the nascent notion
that life is a song I should sing now.
“Love is an emotion that anchors the forlorn heart adrift” – Quote by poet
Walking on lone path in grim wilderness
I follow in dream night silver moonbeam,
reach shimmering sea where cobalt dusts drip.
Embraced, I ride enthralled on dancing waves,
that’s where love's charming touch I feel allured.
Sunburst dawn paints on sky joyful fresco,
I see dew drops glow crowning my meadow,
that’s when I find the luster of love shine.
As bleak sky melts onyx clouds of dismay
my abode lies abandoned in flash flood.
Forlorn in the storm I lose me to stray,
drift to your heart to anchor, to be owned.
sift tender what the sandman leaves your eyes
thus soft with dreams meandering, that swoon
the gauzy soot that dusts the day's goodbyes
grown weighty from their cares of life, too soon
and borne upon the bright beams … of the moon.
Rewrite December 19, 2025
For the “Bite Size Number 131 Poetry Contest”
Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor
Christmas time
comes with feel of joy prime,
as moon dusts shine on snowy fir trees.
They swing to dance in delight in the frosty breeze,
waves of snowflake whisper the tune of winter freeze,
as carol music floats in air free.
Home stars adorn with glee
Christmas tree.
War in its profound essence
begins not in the battlefield,
but in the dark chambers of human ego.
The self-interest thrives on the illusion of invincibility,
distorts the judgement of historical forces,
designs the destiny of nations
to misshape the configuration of the world.
The selfish egos of war write the story of pride,
seeking a permanent legacy of triumph.
The tragedy lies in their blindness to the primary truth
that all existence is intertwined,
and to harm others is to destroy oneself
when the guns go silent and the dusts settle.
In the irrationality of war their vanity
can’t transcend the narrow limits of egotism.
Sedated by the delusion of greatness
the selfish egos of war seek to embed themselves
upon the enduring world,
but their quest for immortality ironically hastens erasure.
Star-dusts punctuate the dwindling daylight.
The moon enkindles the nooks of the skies.
Restless charcoal clouds yearn to be quiet.
The fog-clad blossoms still seek the sunrise.
As foretold by the mystics and sages
His advent is an act of upheaval.
He rewrites the history's ripped-up pages.
His strife is between the good and evil.
He pitches his tent among meek humans.
He blows as silent as the tender breeze.
Cosmos, into lustrous light, illumines.
Creatures, in adoration, bend their knees.
Creation, at his descend, stands astounded.
Times in timelessness stand suspended.
To eye the purple bruise of dawn
That routs the road you travel on
In draughts no man can verbalize,
And yellow forks the bludgeoned sky
In tongues that lap at thunderstorms
Which fuel the rain that hunts you down –
To joust the iris of the sun
That browns the green of hissing lawns
And droughts the earth where buff it lies
In dusts of wind you can’t deny –
To nock the angle of the bow
That knows the way the arrow goes
And draw the cord that hurls it down
The road you ride to the unknown –
Sapphire stones, like little stars, shine.
Coal clouds form a webby design.
Dusts of light, with darkness, entwine.
Amidst red-black color flake
Waves of heavenly seas break.
The sun has gently gone to bed.
Bloody rays of the red moon spread.
Twilight, into rainbow shades, shred
Jet black kraits crawl around clouds.
Puzzles muse over dim shrouds.
Elephantine hills lay lazy.
Nocturnal creatures go crazy.
Environs seem as though hazy
While banks of rivers darkle
Water surfaces sparkle.
Amidst makeshift night's sluggish sigh
Cherubim fly about the sky.
Sleepy nightingales bid goodbye.
Silhouettes of flora dance.
As the breeze is in a trance
Angelic solemnness pervades.
Amidst the dead of night's black shades
Dewdrops decorate the grass blades.
I feel an unknown romance.
Spreading her mystical glance
... alleluias sound all around...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
flour dusts her apron
sunlight spills through windowpanes—
soft hands knead the dough
steam curls from the pot
her laughter stirs the broth's warmth—
scent of thyme and home
knife halts mid-paring,
her gaze drifts to fading light—
stillness fills the room
Kindling lamps more now on path
I wish to rejoice not to mourn.
If none speaks, I talk on my own.
I am always energetic and in mirth.
Generous heart , intelligent jovial kind liberal
even on blind road travels dynamic restless-
whirling in storm while dusts flown.
Darkness prevails, soul glows on.
Restless solivagant traveller ultimate valorous wanderer !
Seeds of struggle are always sown.
Plants with leaves of action are grown.
Fruits of success left unknown, basically aimless.
As born carefree delighted enthusiastic freely grown
Comfortable in each zone.
Life runs in challenging tone.
I am walking , walking all alone.
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