HIGHLIGHTED INTENTIONS-:-
naturally
achieved
positions
customarily
conceived
MINUTE BY MINUTE
discovering
sympathetic
reality
instinctively
established
in NATURAL SIMPLICITY
commonly
exhibited
affinity
repeatedly
tasted
OPINION WITHOUT HINDRANCE-:-
exppected
persuasive
discussion
hinted
beliefs
in MATTERS ARTISTIC
gradually
illustrated
exhibited
reconciled
recognition
of CONSIDERABLE BEAUTY
believing
respecting
virtues
burgeoning
reportoire
'Two Sisters on the Terrace' by Pierre Auguste Renoir is a famous painting exhibited at the Art Institute of Chicago.
two lovely sisters
on terrace with abandon
bathed in dewy glow~
elder dreaming in quiet
younger flashing naivety
ENTWINED SYMBOLS-:-
genius
warms
love
either
side
of WIDE HORIZONS
reborn
exhibited
sympathetic
symbolic
epigraphs
with WIDE-ANGLE
celebrated
light
filled
tribute
pictures
Sometimes a simple question
needs a simple answer,
other times, a lecture.
I adhere to the principle of truthfulness, irrespective of the consequences. He asked if I had any affection for him, which reminded me of a mathematical question posed by my second-grade teacher. Maintaining a composed manner, I replied in the negative. His response exhibited a noticeable change in demeanor. I firmly believe that honesty holds significant value, regardless of potential outcomes. The inquiry, "Do you love me?" has been addressed to me on numerous occasions, more than I am inclined to mention; I interpret it as a politically charged statement. (Increase in social security benefits)
Sometimes a simple question
Needs a simple answer
Other times, a lecture.
And as for me, I hate having long, drawn-out lectures
Today I am celebrating my 69th Sunday, 2026
It is well with my soul.
Nature’s most fearsome orchestration
of sights, sounds and terrific movements
can feel like the very air we breathe
is being turned against us
as it manifests itself
in many forms of storms.
When earth becomes ungrounded,
it quakes inside its ancient bones,
filling souls with dread
as Mother Nature joins in,
birthing storm quakes
in large bodies of water.
As water fills earth’s veins,
it’s as if the planet bleeds from oceanic wounds,
which tumble over anything and anyone
standing in Mother Nature’s path,
showing those wounds as tsunamis.
Under certain conditions,
Mother Nature unleashes her fickle fury
as hurricanes that sweep over
coastal areas,
and in many other parts of the world,
tornadoes touch down just as unpredictably,
ravaging homes and entire cities,
whirling violently over the land -
claiming innocent lives in the wake
of great devastation.
Throughout all history,
Mother Nature, along with earth,
has exhibited her capricious disposition,
often at the most random of places and times.
Recently, however, humans have contributed
more and more to their own demise
as Mother Nature takes a deep breath
and then vehemently
exhales.
Written: December 07, 2025, for contest sponsored by Benjamin Bartley
**************
One day, the wiggle-wobble wobbliness begins to shake.
They writhed and jiggled in a truly amusing wake!
They dashed across tunnels and bounced on a breeze.
Tickled the blossoms, and sniffed the trees.
They gulped laughs, they sipped up the sun,
They hiccupped together—oh, what fun!
They painted the sky with a bubblegum tone.
And carve the skies with one or two stones.
Wizzle, a Woozle, exhibited socks on his head.
One other donned pancakes in place of his bread.
They drummed on their drums and shook their rattles.
With twiddly thumbs, they sang "Zibble-Zabble!"
Both the adults and the children laughed.
Wherever Woozles woo, they convey a raft
They educate us that stupidity is vibrant and bright.
That absurdity twinkles and tickles the night.
Thus, if you feel blue, grumpy, or gloomy,
Simply summon a Woozle; they will dance and draw me.
They will chuckle and wobble, rhyme and rattle;
And allow every moment to prattle.
Treasure cache in a basement.
Trophies of past passions exhibited with pride.
Years of boasting are secured.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
It is finally time to talk about the wee dance
A dance exhibited throughout the ages
By humans from all walks of life
At any time and in many places
Now, children love the wee dance
Legs crossed tightly, body jiggling about
Left going to the toilet last minute
The child yelling “ the wee is coming out”
Hearty laughter can bring on the wee dance
Legs crossed tightly, body jiggling about
“Stop….Im going to wet myself” heard during times of uncontrollable laughter
Some doing the deed….no doubt!
The wee dance does not discriminate
It can happen to you or me
The only requirement needed
Is a bladder full of wee ….
Deep in to the shivering waves of mood,
have just met the other me,
through hundreds of inner layers,
unbeknown to myself
they swarmed like thousands of prayers.
A lifetime of constant spirited battle
where tumultuous emotions can not be settled.
All those other exhibited faces that have me defined,
yet many of them still non-obedient in being refined.
Now, my character with several shapeless sides,
will remain yet again on stranger tides.
Tomorrow is an obscure wonder,
where yet again,
another new me awaits to subsequently wander.
I have this little Ginger Cat.
Lord knows what he sees
in me! – cutest adoring eyes
I don’t deserve; purrs in
reserve, as he settles to cuddle
and be stroked.
All I do is feed him, a bowl of
fresh water couple times a day --
box of clay for his business – but,
I could almost swear, that there is
true love for me, exhibited in even
our mundane close encounters
given a chance, he would kill every
backyard dove...just for fun shred
I guess, he’s only being a cat for I
keep him well fed
hoping God instructs Michael
to give similar latitude when it
comes to His Man
sure can be confusing, when
considering, God, and His, often, perplexing
species' plan....
I'm sick and tired of the so-called muses,
especially the one who always chooses
to make it clear that I don't work hard enough,
yet, when I ask for a little help with my stuff,
she's always the first one who flatly refuses.
My muse yelled, "Stop! That's prohibited."
I said, "What?"
"The behavior you just exhibited."
I said, "What did I do?"
She said, "You took some lines that didn't belong to you."
I said, "Jeez! Instead of helping me, you're making me feel totally inhibited."
Someone asked, "Could you write without a muse?"
I said, "Probably could, but I'd refuse.
Why? Because a muse is so good at showing
what to tell the audience and what to keep it from knowing
so that you can keep right on going with your wild-ass ruse."
I was having a hell of a time
with a poem that shouldn’t ever have been mine.
The muse had made a big mistake
by giving me lines that shoulda gone to this poet named Blake,
of which I could make neither reason nor rhyme.
When I write
my goal is to be
impersonal as possible --
giving all credit
or defeat
to the Muse, Devil or
God of a partner.
To my mind,
Poetry, must speak independent of
the author, using a schizoid sort of
logic --
there must be a life
exhibited, that upon completion
the author, reads back with as
much interest as any foreign tourist or explorer
thinking: "where did that come from?"
Then I know, in my own humble way,
though not having touched the face of greater
creation, I have at least seen a small feature, moving on
with better sense of future direction, what to strive for
while in further pursuit of the art. Poetry, like everything else one does
in life, should be viewed through a sacred lens --
in order to do one's best, and for best results.... As I cloudily
ascertain. My method. I know nothing.
Robert Sherriff- Nobody’s Home - poet – author - singer-actor – model - American Historian.
Trump or Harris
From a young age, Trump has exhibited the characteristics of a privileged child, using his family’s wealth to avoid the draft during the Vietnam War.
In stark contrast, I deeply respect Kamala Harris as Vice President.
Trump’s policies, such as the controversial wall targeting immigrants, give him a unique, albeit divisive, edge. Conversely, I hope to see Harris ascend to the presidency of the United States one day.
For those who have read my poem, “12th of January 2025,” you know it foretells a grim prophecy in which Trump meets a tragic end. Historically, America has shown a pattern of eliminating its significant figures in 1865, 1881, 1901, 1963, and, potentially, 2025.
On the 12th of January 2025, Trump will face assassination—a fate that aligns with America’s troubling history of silencing impactful individuals.
Stepping out into the warm morning sun to find it holding hands with the meadows
The grass and the flowers dance synchronously with each other's shadows
Elated, in watching life come alive, elevated from slumbering in their burrows
Reminded of how my happiness has risen against now long forgotten sorrows
My mind's camera is taking snapshots, I suppose
Saving to memory; how beautiful they're exhibited by each expose
Dreams of anticipation as the anchor of time pulls the sunshine to another close
What I find in tomorrow's meadow may very well eclipse what in today's has arose
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