autumn shakes threadbare
spent leaves loosen from brown stems
each clings to the bough
waiting for the tug of wind
to show buds in leaf axils
one leaf lies pressed flat
between pages seldom turned
kept from rain and light
its veins mirror buried roots
grounding what the leaf recalls
wine darkens the glass
one mouthful remains untouched
thirst catches its shine
sweetness ripens when restrained
the tongue leaves a taste behind
on dust-silver shelves
each book keeps its well-thumbed leaves
spines remember hands
binding what the years recall
in their dog-eared aftermath
names fade from old cards
ink gives way to the humdrum
old contacts grow pale
what I leave for others' eyes
means nothing to their kind ghosts
leaf settles on leaf
each layer hides another
last in, first recalled
gathered from one's only life
their weight growing underneath
neither dusk nor dawn
can deceive me about leaves
I shed, keep, forgo
forget, give away, hold back—
each leaves something of a life
__________________________
With all the bravado of its president Trump, America is increasingly getting exposed as a paper tiger in the world today.
______________________
O ye paper tiger,
Dare me not with your sham roar,
I know your horoscope in full--
From which tree pulp you’re made,
By which mill, to what grade,
Why me, all the forest knows this,
You were made from old papers,
From dog-eared books recycled,
Your yellow shade bares all that aloud,
The dull stripes your family root shows,
Brag not nor wag your tail,
Keep it tucked to your hind,
False bravado no one’s esteem wins,
Go deep in wild forest
To know what it means to be a true tiger
And what, just a paper tiger.
Anyone can twist your tail, ride on you,
Stop that goat-like mien, it only reveals you.
Should ye still for a fight spoil,
I will, to burry you deep in soil
To give you a rare chance
To grow as fresh green tree in a wood,
In woods dark and deep, true tigers flourish,
Not a recycled pale tiger like you.
___________________________
Happenings |16.07.2026 | forest/wood, tiger, satire, USA, free verse
My name is Captain Thomas Blake
William’s company commander
I am very sorry for the loss of your son
at the hands of a sniper
I did not get to know him as he was assigned
to my company only a week ago
I have enclosed his personal effects:
1. a sepia toned picture of a young woman holding a
baby boy with Mom and Me in black marker scrawled on the back
2. an envelope with the name Susie written in feminine hand on
the front containing a love letter from her
3. a well gnawed penicil and tattered notebook-
your son was an excellent poet
4. one dog eared Gideon New Testament
5. the Scot Terrier token from Monopoly
wrapped in a zip lock bag
It is with deepest regret we can only return these enclosed
items and not your living son.
With humble regards
Capt. Thomas Blake
Co. A
1st Battalion
504th Inf. Reg
82nd Airborne Div.
Feared odds would be insurmountable,
Almighty winds somehow drifted in our favour.
Longed we did for more harmonious conditions,
Lulls in the chaos of our lives.
Ideal conditions out there in the fog,
Nebulous at best ~ no horizon in sight,
Gambling we did on a sunny outcome.
Ironic ~ all chips on red or black
Never allowing despair to run its course.
Thinking we dare conquer turbulence,
Oceans calmed with dreamy blues.
Yesterday all seemed mad disarray.
Our eyes fixed on a distant oasis,
Undaunted we stayed the course.
AP: 1st place 2026, 1st place 2026
It has been a rough week.
Monday was dog-eared and dozing.
The world ended on Tuesday -
so not a great start.
Wednesday, not surprisingly,
did not know how to break the news.
The planet carried on being essentially global
while millions of people seemingly not to care
that they were no longer there.
There were many afterlife tragedies,
rumors of leaky unsustainable beliefs,
suicides were tried but to no avail.
Everywhere there were catastrophic failures
of restroom facilities.
Thursday dissolved quietly
unwilling to confirm or deny its existence.
Those still able to crawl to work
did so in their dreaming skulls.
Friday absentmindedly tried to begin again
then remembered.
The few who thought it might only be
a cosmic PowerGrid blip
were assured by ghostly astrophysicist
that the world would return
and apologized for all the fuss.
However, as happened,
the weekend really was the END.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At dawn, your fingers
still trace the curve of my spine
like they're reading braille~
each scar, each shift in the landscape,
a sentence you know by heart.
You laugh when I steal the blanket,
when my knees find the hollows
behind yours, an old map
drawn without compass or reason.
Our fights are old books now,
their spines cracked open
to the same dog-eared pages~
we know the lines by heart,
but recite them softer these days.
We are two trees grown
into each other’s bark,
gnarled and weathered-together,
no longer remembering
which rings belong to whom.
Some loves are built like this~
not with grand gestures,
but with the quiet tyranny
of your coffee cup left warming
on my nightstand,
the way you hum off-key
in the shower, still, after all these years,
and I pretend not to hear it,
and you pretend not to know.
Forty-three autumns,
and your hands smell like sawdust
and onions, and I wouldn’t trade
our slow unraveling for anything~
not even the taut, bright thread
we once were.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December,
whispers melting fast~
promises scribbled on receipts,
dog-eared hope curled in midnight’s fist,
unread.
Tonight sick Santa had to take off,
he has a bad case of whooping cough.
The reindeers are acting weird,
all are hungry and dog-eared.
Home for a hot bowl of beef stroganoff.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aisle-strayed, the spine-scuff welcomes:
this scent, pine pulp and glue ghosts,
settles dust-flurried lungs.
Fingers graze jackets—crackled vellum,
fresh gloss bleeding promise.
Shelves stand like weathered priests
holding confessionals of ink.
One flayed paperback, dog-eared
at page sixty-three's small triumph—
proof someone else needed saving.
Here, grief grows papercuts;
hope wears library stamps.
Every warped cover a hatch
lifting into borrowed light.
Howdy friend, I'm new in town.
I think I'll jot a few things down,
which, I hope, might take a frown
and turn it upside down.
OK, now let's play a game,
to see how much we are the same.
These are things that make me smile:
a new bride walks down the aisle
the radio plays my favorite song
a child has a place to belong
fish in a clear mountain stream
being part of a team
I'm weird, I like insects and bugs
but I also like kisses and hugs
a funny, animated cartoon
a cute face on a red balloon
a caring nod, a holding hand
the twanging of a rubber band
a sunny day on the beach
biting a juicy, dripping peach
riding the crest of a wave
climbing into a secret cave
I like to scratch my dog's fur
and the voice of Karen Carpenter
In the morning it is fun
to see a flower meet the sun
a kid on a hot day with a hose
a fly when it lands on his nose
I like to watch a top when it spins
and when the underdog wins
the smell of fresh baked bread
a good story to read in bed
to see the shining happy glow
of a child's face in a talent show
I like munching raisin scones
and wild animals that no one owns
please note, I am also smitten
by a week-old big eared kitten
a practiced smile on her face
a mother’s oenomel breath puffs wind under gossamer wings
reminiscent of the translucent wings of green lacewings—
mistaken for a pest, but beneficial—
to strike out and explore a thorny world
resisting the siren call of spring’s scent
turning their heads with songs of love
emerging personalities
unravel the cocoon spun in love
as naiveté fragmentises into bluster
a mother unobtrusively dries tears
desiring a moral code of empathy towards all
the sweet fragrance of pride
a tantalising selection between
intrinsic values and
natural curiosity—
concomitant heartbeat tempos to dog-eared sheet music of ambition
culminating in Life’s crescendo
natural selection, be damned
as recalcitrant offspring echoes eons of mitochondrial resilience
Steak, a versatile food,
So easy to prepare.
Seared, broiled, or grilled, my choice.
Searing steak, I prefer.
Savory, meaty, and
Smoky scent in the air.
Seared rib eye steak, yummy!
I still see my mother
sitting at the kitchen table
copying out her favorite recipes
from the Women’s Weekly magazine.
With pen in hand,
she’d carefully write the recipe,
word for word in her notebook.
There are hundreds that
she collected over the decades.
That notebook, with its dog-eared pages,
crusty stains and side notes,
is now in my hands.
The thing is, I don’t cook—
my other half is the chef in our family.
Now and then, he’ll ask me for
Mom’s notebook to try one of her
secret recipes, although he likes to add
his own twist to it—
it needs a bit of spice, he says.
But nobody beats Mom’s cooking!
A village in the sun
There is a small village with a few streets that have no name and houses have no number twelve I bought a small home that had stood empty for years when not used as a stable for the unique Algarvian white long-eared donkey
Retired workers in the village up the road where the shop was located next door to a café where they sat enjoying their beer fixed my house and soon I with my dogs everyone in the Algarve has a dog and I could spend my time writing poetry or walking in the wood
This Idyll was too perfect to last, one day a group of English tourists came to my village, and I, the only one who spoke English sealed the village's fate by telling them what a wonderful this place was and that there were several empty houses for sale the homes were snapped up and before you could say, Adam, the village became English
Cans of beer in the ditches, late-night parties scantily dressed women craving sex and sun the idyll was over it was time to leave my refuge from a noisy place filled with people who said how much they loved Portugal
Self Analysis
Miracle man
1/31/2025
I’m like an old book that sits on a shelf,
Dog eared pages reveal things about myself.
my pages are yellowed and worn from my years,
some chapters introduce laughter, some tears.
But just like the book, time’s taken its toll,
life, like the book, has accomplished its goal?
Today few care what either has to say,
you may rest yourself, on some shelf one day.
Sub Categories
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