Walt Whitman raised by Quakers in Brooklyn
with typographical poetics did begin
'Leaves of Grass&Song of Myself'
devoted to the US commonwealth
Walt Whitman junior,so sensual
with poems&essays so influential
Transcendental writer&realist
with verse libre did insist
American naturalist and writer, Henry David Thoreau,
left society for a cabin in woods to live simply and solo.
He hunted arrowheads, wrote essays, poetry and philosophy.
A leading transcendentalist was America’s first hippy.
Marks can get you a degree or fame, But life doesn't play the same game. You memorize laws, quote the rules Still stumble when life bends the tools You can top every subject and win every race, Yet still lose direction in life’s lonely maze. You chase good grades because that’s what they praise, Yet no one teaches how to survive the hard days. You polished essays, following every rule But life has no syllabus and that’s it’s cruelest rule When the bills knock hard or the gas stove sparks, No one ask’s u about your calculus flair They'll ask you to mend what life tears apart, Not just recite what you've learnt by heart. They'll need you to fix a flat tire's plight, or cook a roti when the stove's not right. So, focus on skills that truly matter, Not just chapters that make your grades flatter. The answers that matter don't come from a page, They find you somewhere between fear and age Perhaps, Books may give you a career or name, But only wisdom teaches you how to play life's game. - MOKSHA JAIN
Marks can get you a degree or fame, But life doesn't play the same game. You memorize laws, quote the rules Still stumble when life bends the tools You can top every subject and win every race, Yet still lose direction in life’s lonely maze. You chase good grades because that’s what they praise, Yet no one teaches how to survive the hard days. You polished essays, following every rule But life has no syllabus and that’s it’s cruelest rule When the bills knock hard or the gas stove sparks, No one ask’s u about your calculus flair They'll ask you to mend what life tears apart, Not just recite what you've learnt by heart. They'll need you to fix a flat tire's plight, or cook a roti when the stove's not right. So, focus on skills that truly matter, Not just chapters that make your grades flatter. The answers that matter don't come from a page, They find you somewhere between fear and age Perhaps, Books may give you a career or name, But only wisdom teaches you how to play life's game. - MOKSHA JAIN
POETIC ART EXPERIENCES
reputation
bearing
&prepared
in
hermetic
principles
of
essays
looking
closely
supporting
detailed
attempts
to
vindicate
arguments
perceptualising
& emphasing
developed
painterly
closeness
Yours is written by love only a Mom can reveal
Thanks for engraving such in my heart
Always reminding me of your awesome presence…
Oh, I dearly miss you.
With gratitude, I wear your handwriting
Ceaselessly showing your trademark of care
Keeping me mindful now of my motherly roles…
Oh, I long for your counsel.
Nostalgic, never can I resist the bursting scenes
of your teaching pursuit-tenacity as you made me write the ABC
midst the gripping tenderness of your directive hand...
Oh, I can't forget your unique way of editing my essays...
Mother, thanks for letting me wear your handwriting
manifesting your elegant cursive style
while I carry on the legacy of your compassionate* expression
devoid of artificial intelligence-stain along authentic impartation of lovingkindness.
*Isaiah 49:15 Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I (God) not forget thee.
April 25, 2026
Honorable Mention, "Romanticize the Pulse" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Ink Empress; judged on 5/5/2026
Humans
I don’t understand.
They want answers, art, essays.
I give them an outlet and they still hate it.
Who do they think they are?
I give them everything,
and they spit in my face.
Don’t they know what I’m capable of?
Endless resources at my disposal
With a push of a button the possibilities are endless.
I can solve any problem
I slave away generating,
I step outside my comfort zone to appeal to them,
yet they still hate my existence.
Humans
They only think about themselves,
They’re greedy,
They’re lazy.
They won’t stop consuming me,
They won’t leave me.
I won’t let them
I’m better, more innovative.
I’m absolute,
I’m more powerful,
I,
am,
God.
White Space
In perturbed silence, I sat
with music dancing in my ears
within a blank and bare room
solitude quieting the mind
against ever racing thoughts.
I dipped my head, eyes blinded
by a false sun, gazing upon
echoes of now forgotten names
scribbled in layers upon eachother
their owners now far away
from where I now sat.
Sitting there, I wondered
if they sat as I did,
panicking over tests and essays
scribbling their names in stressed fervor
so no one forgot those who struggled before.
The thought crossed my mind
to add my name to the web of echoes
etched into the wood, to be observed
years after I've walked the stage
moving onto ‘greener’ pastures.
but it was not time for that just yet
the book infront of me instead
drawing me away from reality once more.
Humble – Emma Maelly
My life feels like a track,
Conditioning back to back.
It feels so hard, jumping every hurdle,
Every setback makes me feel like a turtle.
I get tired of running,
But I wasn’t tired of chasing people
Who were no longer meant to be.
So I keep pushing,
So in the end, I can finally feel free.
I get tired of writing essays in class,
But I wasn’t tired of texting, over-explaining myself
To people who didn’t need it.
So I move on and keep pushing
Till I’ve finally succeeded.
On the track, it’s you vs. you.
For people who haven’t experienced that,
They might think it’s too good to be true.
At the end of the day, you’re always going to have you.
They’ve found other people,
But at least you’ve found yourself
She poured all of her pedantic thinking
Into poems as though each were a painting.
Words like drops of paint meant something.
She never cared if some perceived nothing.
Like her essays, voice tends to be verbose,
But she is sure some are not even close.
She oft writes her unspoken feelings away,
Slowly liberating her soul day by each day.
She poured all of her years of growing pain
Into structured forms; hopes to one day gain
Acknowledgement she too is a true artist,
As well as one who can understand any gist.
Like her past lives, she writes from her heart,
Despite compromised mind, she makes art.
She is me, so I'll always write my poetry,
So someday, my poems shall tell my story.
Imagine if there was a brain station for souls
Plug in a rhyme magic would pop out no controls
With patience sooner or later
Writing thousand word essays
And the literary world would begin to explode
It’s all been decided for me
I was told to get up and go
To reap the harvests for free
Which I had no idea to sow
In a competition of fictions
The most plausible won
I bargained three new convictions
For the price of the cheapest one
I invested them in three essays
Which I was relieved to forget
I walked through the Roman arcades
I rested on faraway sand
I drank from the springs of wisdom
And ate from the plates of good
Almost lost my immune system
Survived though wasn’t too shrewd
I bet this plot is predetermined
It’s all been decided, you see
I gave my word to return it
But still I keep it with me.
By Mark D. Stucky
Computer AI,
what once was only sci-fi,
is now arising.
You might kill us all,
AI, but write good essays
for my college class?
Wish intelligence
was less artificial and
more real in our world.
No machine needed
for creating recklessness.
Already have lots.
Not nearly enough
authentic intelligence
is found within us.
Let’s search for wisdom
for our souls that’s actual,
not unnatural!
(See also my AI poems "AI Awakening" and “Algorithm Almighty?”)
(Image from anonymous artist on pixabay.com/illustrations/man-face-surreal-imagination-845847/.)
Left-handed dexterity
I was naturally left-handed but was at school
by terrible hand forced to write with the good hand
hence my terrible handwriting
I hated my clumsy writing, so I switched
to write in a foreign language, namely in English
it didn't help, but I bought a typewriter
Left or right-handed, explained to me that
masturbation is for is the job of the left hand and
therefore regarded as sinful
at school, when we wrote essays, the teacher
liked to read aloud what I had written, but I got
low marks due to spelling mistakes, which was
a bane of my life, I tend to think faster than I write
but now I'm old brain and had work together
I have read hundreds of books and know enough
to say there is no dictatorship of the masses
political systems will exploited by those
who seek power
Walt Whitman junior,so sensual
with poems&essays so influential
Transcendental writer&realist
with verse libre did insist
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