Death has no bells; he has no arrival ceremony.
He comes to take the lives of all who inhabit the earth.
He is quick and subtle; he stirs a river of tears among the living.
He knows no color or status, no evil or good.
Who has the wisdom to prepare for him, or to whom has it been revealed?
For centuries, mankind has searched far and wide, yet many have never succeeded.
There was a Man who lived and died, who was crucified upon a cross.
Yet He cheated death, rising after three days.
Death! Who in Jesus trembles before you?
For you have a Master to whom you must answer, who is the Christ.
For through death we enter paradise and behold the Savior's face.
Repent, all people, for you have sinned against God and His righteousness.
Turn to Jesus, for in Him is eternal life.
Seek His face, for sweet is His presence.
For easy is the way to unrighteousness,
but straight and narrow is the way to life.
Wait for the Lord, all you His people;
why do you hasten so?
Be like a wise farmer who tends to his crop,
or the birds of the air
who search for nourishment.
For what would be their profit?
If not the racing of their hearts,
bringing them to their end.
So trust in Him,
like the blind trusting their cane
to guide their steps.
Wait.
Please do not leave me.
If you don’t love,
I may ask your favor, but can’t force you
I am loner : If you love me, it’s fine.
If you be mine, I will be yours :
Forever.
REVERSE
Forever
I will be yours, If you be mine.
If you love me, it’s fine. I am loner :
I may ask your favor, but can’t force you.
If you don’t love,
leave me.
Please do not wait.
Nothing.
I tried to grasp at the thought of wasted muscles.
I tried to stop joint damage.
Being around people, but they are rotting.
When everyone else is rotting.
And you’re just playing with your thumbs.
Trying to smooth out your thumbs.
Waiting for everyone to stop waddling around, rotting, and falling apart.
While you’re stopped.
Hush.
There’s alone.
And there’s waiting for people to stop rotting.
So I can sweep up.
My name is Johnny Golightly,
I’m a travelling salesman of a differential kind.
I’m here to sell you something simply divine.
Something very exquisite, something unique indeed
Something very wonderful that everyone wants
And that everyone needs.
It has something to do with what we’ve already got
But somewhere in time it has simply got lost,
Forgotten or buried in the Garden last Fall.
It most definitely has to do with God’s grande design
The human mind, a Cosmic gold mine.
I ask for nothing in return for this knowledge of mine
No money can buy but selling I am
This concept of storing up stories within…
Each person a chapter, each generation a gem
Each dream that is realized is what makes us transcend
And the Book of Life never ends.
It is just a matter of time,
While travelling a very fine line
Flip thru the pages, forward and back
Is like flipping through Ages of glorious gak.
a thorn in his paw caused him anguish most of the day
his mood got darker, he wanted to crucify someone
at least make them suffer half as much as he was
by noon he was the angriest he had ever been
an angry werewolf, not welcome anywhere
he was in too much pain to sleep, so he stomped around
looking for mischief, scaring the flesh off some of the townspeople
this gave him a teensy bit of a reprieve
by the time he saw the line of jack-o-lanterns he was frantic with rage
he stomped them, slammed them, chopped them, tore them
a werewolf with a sore paw is not something anyone wants to discover
I was too frightened to help him so I locked myself in my car
which he rocked with his strong body, hoping to terrorize me
a frightening Halloween night for this writer
So here I am,
steeped in the sharp scent of deodorant,
my skin still warm
with the last light of afternoon,
walking towards Dorothy.
Dorothy sees me,
then pretends she hasn’t,
and walks away
with another young man.
Was that enough
to make a poem?
For the life of me,
I can no longer remember
why I came to Dorothy.
Was it
to tell her
a lesbian’s story?
I’m struggling to stand on my own two legs.
I’m struggling to spell the word “me”
as it’s been the only thing I’ve talked about.
I’m struggling to help those in need of help
without mentioning the word “me”
I’m struggling to talk to the person I love the most.
I’m struggling to want to take a shower every night.
I’m struggling to have the want to study for a test
that I know I’ll fail if I don’t.
I’m struggling to have the want to go to dance.
the need for dance.
i’m struggling to make an effort to survive.
“Don’t you mean live?”
no.
You think you see me,
but you don't.
You see the mask I put on,
but not me,
not the real me.
You say I don't wear a mask,
that you would know if I did,
but you don't know me!
You don't see me!
And how I struggle in the world,
in conversations,
in gestures.
You don't see me,
pretend to be someone I am not.
You don't see me,
imitate your language,
your faces
your interactions,
your signals,
your cues,
your words!
You don't see me!
Today I can smell,
nothing of the room.
That's all I smell in Ms. Rilling's room,
at the end of my junior year.
Truth be told,
I am conflicted,
about,
the end of my junior year.
I am happy the school year is over
yet scared about being one step closer
to being thrown to the wolves,
thrust into adulthood,
into the cruel world,
into the complex and complicated thing,
that is college.
I am worried about
how things might go on my own.
But I take a few deep breaths,
in and out,
tell myself it will be okay,
that adulthood is not here yet,
at the end of my junior year.
Time slips in and out
when doing the something you like.
Time slips out and in,
when doing something you hate,
but how can we truly measure,
time,
when there is so little time,
yet not enough time.
Hours pass as they all do,
but I have no time left.
No time left to be me.
So much time to be me.
Yet I have so much,
time left to be me.
How will I know,
if time is too much,
or too little?
Only a decade in a century
Only a year in a decade
Only 12 months in a year.
Only 4 weeks in a month.
Only 52 weeks in a year.
Only 7 days a week.
Only 365 days in a year.
Only 24 hours in a day.
Only 60 minutes in an hour.
Only 60 seconds in a minute.
So much time,
Yet so little time.
I wish I had more time.
God, deliver her to me,
For she is the only one
Who deserves my love and passion.
Her angelic descent to this earth,
A world that doesn’t deserve her beauty
Yet owes her everything,
Is why I long to see our souls intertwine.
The love I feel for her, God,
Is the same love you felt
Watching your Son baptized in the Jordan.
Just as the dove flew over Him, so does my heart.
I cannot find it in my heart to reject
The idea of her I have built.
Everything I’ve ever wanted,
She has granted with a touch.
Her graceful arms caress my coarse back;
Her slender figure flutters across my mind.
The way she tilts her head and smiles
Captures my gaze like no other woman can.
Her beauty doesn’t come without intelligence;
She is able to enlighten me to greater heights.
The truths I once struggled to bear,
She taught me with such tender mercy.
My Heavenly Father, she is Your creation.
I can see Your compassion through her.
She feeds the hungry and cares for the sick,
Loving children and the elderly as her own.
God, I implore You to let me
Love this woman of my dreams
As much as I love You.
He's sorry.
He's sorry for how you were raised.
Sorry for how you had to be a mom at a young age.
How you had to cook, clean, and discipline your brothers while your parents weren't around.
He's sorry you grew up with half a father and a broken mother.
He regrets not being more for you. For not being emotionally available.
And when he had figured it out, it was too late.
You were already broken.
Following on the broken path that had been laid out for you.
Already tired.
Already worn down
And beaten.
He regrets not hearing the cries.
He regrets hearing the cries and not rising up to comfort them.
Choosing the corner instead of the battle.
He regrets adding to the pain and tears.
The rain, and the fears
The storms through the years.
He regrets vomiting you out of a system with strict rules to end up not following them himself.
He regrets expecting more from you than he gave himself.
He also crashed out and burned and hated himself.
He lashed out but then he learned and forgave himself.
So if you come back, know that it won't be to what you had.
You'll come back to an actual Dad.
climbing again
? always
assumed at
confine cost
or fallacious
boardwalk whacking
my unlipped
tongue can
misread and
stomp your
plastic shark
outlaw rebelliously
questioning generalist
cushioned rubbish
mutely muddled
disregarded draftsmanship
from beloved
husband potomania
dibble straying
innately downriver
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • October 5–11, 2026)
Thoughts are doorways into a reality
Which the thoughts themselves
Are only an idea of, a doorway to.
Thoughts are thus infinitely expansive things
Layer upon layer of implication and meaning
And yet, just an idea, an indication
And not the real thing.
All thoughts are like this
Even one as simple as,
“I want to eat cake.”
Since the words and idea
Is not at all the same as the desire itself.
And of course the desire, while real
Is not the cake.
And yet we live in a world of thoughts
About a world which is inherently beyond thought.
Layer upon layer, filling up a space
Which is infinitely fillable
But not just filling,
Furnishing, decorating, enhancing even
In our likeness, the likeness of our desire.
So thoughts are cool
Even when they aren’t and never can be
The real thing.
As they say, the map is not the territory
And thoughts are only how we make our maps.
The territory on the other hand
Is the space at hand.
(10/6/26)
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