Daytime ghosts
Windows bring light that exhales a dead-end world
Softest intentions drown to sleep at the bottom of shallow wells
Neon memories bubble to life the static scores that bodies hide
Mouthed confessions of loveless intimacy that knows no swirls of radiance
Soft embrace of the life above from the cold souls that swim below
Hugless lovers reclining in the bleak blue edges of summer lights hung on horizons
That never knew the scores composed from names that never met
Fainted in pleasures unknown to sender as the tape decks click B-sides search for depth
Tears for two at an empty diner booth that is abandoned along travels to far off destinations
Reservations for taped confessions of vows never thought, as the food comes shared aloud
Relief by numbers in collections of good vibes, better company and lives well lived
High tides come and go as wells stagnate the fishtank below
We ride the shimmer, stardust spun/
Between the birth of dying suns/
A groove of galaxies unwinds/
The pulse of silence, vast, sublime/
Nebulae breathe, in violet streams/
We waltz on waves of astral dreams/
Comet tails curl, a cosmic tune/
Our shadows cast by fractured moons/
Through veils of gas and drifting light,
We pass from day into the night/
Where gravity’s embrace is loose
We dance, unanchored, star-induced/
Electric hearts, in sync, align
With every ancient, pulsing sign/
We cross the nebula, become
A groove eternal, endless drum/
And when the universe exhales
Its secrets, stardust, cosmic tales/
We’ll still be moving, you and I,
Across the nebula-lit sky/
The Rebel
Evening flames falter and die
Suffocated in the night’s cool embrace
A bed of sleepy orange embers
Gradually give way to blue ash
Beneath the hush of silky starlight
A solitary glow persists
Holding against the encroaching dark
Refusing surrender
In daybreak’s velvet breath
Veils of ash, like petals, drift aimlessly away
While the ember defies obliteration
With subtle inner-warmth
In the gall of yesterday’s ruin
It burns for promises never spoken
What remains, quietly transformed
Exhales and ignites something new.
9/17/2026 - For The Rebel Poetry Contest hosted by Unseeking Seeker
Beneath the laminated heavens built for you and I,
memories in turn of century cylinders are lost and
passing by. They beckon with a wail and personal applause
Inviting you to join, before the day withdraws.
Ignore the early stations, lost in their vignettes -
A reservoir of gemini left purling in its wake,
the scent of east-side lobster served well past its date,
daylight wasting in a condo twice sublet,
and elderflower friends that you have never MET.
Depart at Bowery and look for me -
where excess steam exhales forgotten memories
whispered out by cafes turned to sensory
bazaars, and dissipates among avowals left undone
by boys preoccupied by counting stars, not suns.
Exhausting spirits in proportion to their zinfandel -
Until you wander back by east-side locking doors,
past sleeping cats in midnight grocery stores,
at last to sunken homes with tortoise shells
to sleep beneath the echoes of farewells.
Written: August 24, 2026, for: Week's Poetry Challenge: The Color Blue
Blue, a zealot turned arrogant,
fervor fading into hauteur,
devotion darkened into disdain.
sapient in its sway,
dulcet as hymns
and still a shade of seashell.
It limns the sky’s scriptorium,
A selfish scroll of sequins
Stippling clouds with crevice cracks.
A symbol for suns that sail away.
desuetude drapes the shore—
The ocean exhorts
a savage screech
a spindle scream
against scree and stone.
Blue epitomizes arrogance.
indulgent in its rejection,
a wicked shade,
funny but sad,
a spirit of saudade.
It speaks in sonic waves, furtive, fecund, effete—
a hallucinative hymn unraveling across the horizon.
flecked with fanfare froth
Blue is the ache of elsewhere,
a pertinacity of longing,
an obvious evil,
yet a harvest of comfort—
an ethereal respite,
a lullaby of light.
And silence, salient, settles—
blue bows its zealot head,
a final hush,
the sky exhales,
a lucid lull remains.
About the time the Equinox arrives,
something stirs inside me and wonder revives.
In waning rays of summer’s sunlight,
the leaves once green magically ignite.
Then along mountains, trees are ablaze!
I know I’ve seen the last of summer’s days
Eye candy for the soul are hues both soft and bold:
from amber and russet to scarlet and gold.
Autumn exhales, and the leaves break free.
Like children they twirl as if with great glee.
Deep purples and pinks streak twilight skies.
Painting God’s splendor, they fill up my eyes.
Harvest time comes and the crops in each field
bear proof of a generous God with their yield.
Fall sings a song of wind whistling low;
the crackle of bonfires; the caw of a crow.
In Autumn’s sweet breath, so fresh and giving,
I find gratitude and gladness in living.
I wish fall would linger because she brings bliss
till cold touches my lips with a snow-wet kiss.
the day exhales once
small truths drift toward silence
nothing asks for more
Lavender drifts along the castle road,
its scent rising over the castle keep.
Far off, the sun spills gold
across the armor of a passing knight,
A horn sounds from the watchtower,
rolling through the valley like a slow-moving tide.
Hooves answer the rhythmic trot of a rider
returning home after drinking too many tankards of mead.
And the whole kingdom exhales,
wrapped in lavender air and fading gold.
Effluviam drifts in, unseen,
bruised exhales moving through the day.
It rises slow, a toxic fog~
mist born from truths we didn't keep.
It rises quite invisibly,
shrouding thoughts then slipping away.
It moves with soft, corrosive wings,
rusting the clarity I seek.
in the quiet seams of morning,
ancestral breathings rise~
faint stirrings threaded
through the rooms we enter~
soft remnants of voices
that once shaped our name;
they move like light
slipping across old photographs,
a gentle continuity
we never fully see
yet always carry,
as if the past exhales
each time we open the door
to ourselves.
Just a bit after midnight
The fridge hums in the background
An old clock quietly ticks
As she turns the pages
A quiet house exhales
Chapters still to write
Sorrow has found solace here
Laughter an echo chamber
Children a place to be children
Adults allowed to join them
She is scarred, this old house
Stories to go with each one
Hockey sticks, baseballs,
Jump ropes and roller skates
Her windows stick
The doors and floors squeak
Pencil marks tell of a family’s growth
Tape marks recall art exhibits
We will sleep well tonight
Listening to the gentle heartbeat
Of an old house whispering
Just a bit after midnight
Bracing herself for her big moment
called upon to sing the show-stopper
She breathes deeply, exhales
pours all the feeling a twelve-year old girl
hides deep within
into words as much hers as if she had penned them …
I begin as a whisper~
a line that refuses to stay straight,
curling around its own breath
like smoke learning a new alphabet.
unraveling,
I
fall
sideways
into meaning,
letting the words tilt
until gravity forgets me.
Somewhere between pulse and pause,
a thought flickers~
half-formed, half-feral~
and I follow it
into the bright static
where language goes to molt.
fragmenting
I speak in fragments now:
glimmer,
hush,
a door that opens inward,
a name that refuses to echo.
I am the sentence
that breaks itself
to see what light
pours through the crack.
And when the poem finally exhales,
it leaves behind
a scatter of syllables~
soft, shimmering,
like the afterimage of a star
you can still see
even after you close your eyes.
The sun gleams gold on the perennial clematis,
And bees hum low sucking honey from the lavenders.
A brisk breeze brushes the old sturdy sandalwood,
Accepting their delicate shade from spring sun.
The arch entrance exhales its jasmine perfume,
And lizards climb the stalks and hide in stone cracks.
How pleasant is the large ornamental garden
Where hidden crickets sound their constant song.
On such a day, my soul will find repose.
It seeks meditation as I sit beneath the oak.
By Phan Tan Hai
ink drained, the hand tilts, weary—
the page says its farewell;
fragrant with a century’s words,
the poet’s soul closes its eyes.
the lines lean, trembling,
the hand grows tired;
the verse exhales smoke,
chilling the page,
piercing deep into my soul;
a drop of ink rolls,
round and unending.
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