Every week, my dearest day
is when my buddies and I partake and play
our regular contest of cards.
What's great about codgers and cards
that would make an old duffer's day
and inspire pensioners to play?
I dunno, but I think I will peacefully play
with these jokers, and cut ups, and cards,
and these goofballs till my dying day.
It's our day - time to play cards - goodbye!
By Poet.... "Haven hide me safe and sound. Far away from this cruel world. Give me peace of mind and body."
The story of my haven,
as I ran from the huge raven.
Was I living in a cave-in?
Life's pictures have been hung with a cloth pin.
The huge raven represents life,
the cave-in represents midlife.
Where did life go?
Time had no flow,
no more glow.
All the time I was low,
I just wanted to live and to grow.
Hiding in my safe haven covered with snow,
I now watch TV and a new game show.
Skip and slide
Twirl and spin
Recognize your truth
Let your sunshine in
Live easy
Life is a game
Play with gladness
from the conch
whispers come
dissect
distract
blow upon
scintilla branch to intrinsic thought
weighed down
consumed
overwrought
mattering - so magnified
that I can't turn away my eyes
reach for able hand to soothe
what dread could deed undo, disprove
kisses stolen
by long lost words
explored lactic fallacies
become absurd
til endings are not the body expired
but exposure of every cell and every wire
cathartic grip held in awe
control depletes as hem and haw
til sadly swings
and bridges to shame
call time
I must
on the lugubrious game
I journey upright
in an unseen four-horse chariot,
along the eternal path of time—
a charioteer;
with slackened reins
I calmly appear before you.
Motionless beside your absence,
at the navel of your land,
amidst your Pythian Games—
a charioteer;
with broken reins
I hold fast your imperishable feats.
Serene, I journey alongside
in your victory celebrations,
along the meandering ribbon of the Kabeiroi—
a charioteer;
with balanced reins
I glorify serenity and grace.
I do not know how or when it happened.
One day I was by myself.
Then you swept me away.
Sponsor Nette Onclaud
Contest Name THE NUMBERS GAME
Date 8/30/2026
a thought strikes a match
nothing much, a little flame
moths alter their course
someone whispers, what if this—
the curtain catches the light
a balloon inflates
sky requires another sun
string loosens, goes slack
already counting the stars
on the backs of envelopes
morning finds the chairs
still facing yesterday's stage
confetti in shoes
someone refolds promises
along familiar creases
after all, a spade
fits superbly well in hand
soil under the nails
the gate can't bend or unhinge
rain dons handle with slippers
no trumpets today
the kettle attends to rain
a chipped cup, still warm
someone has darned the elbow
of the coat we nearly threw
can unvalued birthright animalize careless communications
indwelling deflective dejection again
mistaking recency with indelicate internment
she is psychoanalytic
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 17–23, 2026)
~ When Playing 'The Game of Love' ~
Let not defeat upon defeat serve as dissuasion
~ One victory changes the whole equation
Eight billion souls mirroring God’s heartbeat,
granted full freedom to act as they please,
estranged from source find love and light deplete,
until shape shifting desires they release,
whence flowing with ease like the morning breeze,
they take a step back to stop flow of time,
dissolving presence in love’s bliss beat chime.
The pop of the fastball into the catcher’s mitt
The catcher’s snap throw to third
The crack of the bat from a great hit
Snap, crack(le) and pop were part of baseball first
You played with feelings,
I played with hope.
You called it a game,
I called it love.
When you left the game,
I was left with scars.
I look into your eyes
And I’m safe
And I’m six years old
And you tell me there is no God
And I’m twelve
And my parents are driving home in opposite directions
The halo slipped and landed, in the hay.
The fox bowed low, then carried it away.
The sheep were counted; one counted back.
The wool stayed white; the ground slick black.
A wooden gift came from nowhere, bearing no name.
The gatekeeper smiled, with no one to blame.
Inside, soft footsteps danced with borrowed names.
Around the gift, their roaring fanned the flames.
The music hummed; the horns kept perfect time.
The fox and hounds perfected every crime.
Which mask was face? Which face had paid the rent?
The mirror winked, then claimed it never meant.
So lock the door, but leave doubt outside.
For even keys may volunteer as guides.
Question each gift that knows your name.
The brightest bargains rarely play, a fair game.
The inbox filled with some strangers dressed as friends,
Each knew exactly where any, and every, suspicion ends.
One showed my name before I'd written mine;
How long have counterfeiters, rehearsed that line?
The gift horse waits until celebrations start.
The fox still knows which strings to pull apart.
New masks grow old; old riddles keep their guise.
Deceit still knocks, once, twice—asks to step inside.
Baseball's a great game played on grass.
You hit a ball. You slide on your ass.
Let's all cheer "Hip hip hurray"
for its inventor, Abner Tripleday.
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