This stone is a memory
and memories are not truth.
I carry these stones in a box,
dripping nostalgia all over my shoes.*
The box fills faster than I can make room,
old rocks settle down below.
Some get stuck between my toes,
as I limp toward another show.
It's already Tuesday again.
I've got a pile of Tuesdays stashed away,
wearing themselves down to sand,
rattling the box with every shake.
Running my finger along the edges
for the last time—I'll know,
I'll divine them across the floor
and see what remains.
Election Time
The winters are long even when
Someone is singing a song without
A clock that goes bong regardless of
The temperatures anywhere in the country
Election time is seldom right on the dime
except for always being the same month
Every year which is when our spears
get stuck in frozen trees
If only there was a way to vote from boats
While boiling some oats as our coats hang
Above our fake goat but no matter where we
go or even vote we will forever be Americans
By nature
Contest: The Logic of Longing
Sponsor: Ink Empress
Granted. I may be getting old and grey;
And I know that things are different today;
And the culture is flowing another way;
And some things are in disarray.
But there is something that I must say.
Some fundamentals must be allowed to stay.
It does not pay To be LOVE-DRUNK ON DESIRE.
The cost could be very pricy and dire.
Why should one get stuck in the mire?
Or get one's self entangled in wires?
Anything that has the word love attached
Should by all means have a sobering dispatch.
I’ve always found opening up too hard
it’s much easier to clutch a shard
a shard of glass between my fists
that opens the veins within my wrists
releasing blood is easier than words
it doesn’t get stuck, just sings like birds
flowing out, a river of red
“please just stop for me” they said
“I promise I’ll try” but it happens again
the simplest way to ease my pain
I feel so numb, without a soul
all I want is to again feel whole
a deadly instrument, shiny and sharp
it soothes my hurt like a beautiful harp
lulls me into a false sense of calm
the monster within me, called self-harm
Words That Come from Me
Kevin Davis, 2024
I always like it when my words you see,
Because they mostly come from me.
They start out deep inside my head,
And percolate—just waiting to be read.
When they are ready, I sit and write,
Hoping each line will come out right.
Sometimes I get stuck and help I ask,
Just searching for the right word fast.
Then, like magic, a word appears,
The one my fingers chased for years.
Or my wife will smile and say something new,
And I’ll find her thought was what I knew.
I ask her then to hear each line,
And she may say I’ve leaned too hard on rhythm.
The same old word, once more confined.
We laugh, our language intertwined.
It shows how well we think as one,
A bond still growing, never done.
So, with these words, my thanks to you—
It means the world they’ve reached you too.
As long as thoughts flow mind to page,
I’ll share them freely—age to age.
They speak of me, my joys, my doubt,
And through them all, my heart comes out.
So once again, my thanks to thee,
For loving words that come from me.
I’m chocolate kisses in mid air
Lillies get stuck in my licorice hair
Not a beauty by American standards
But I intrigue courters and enchanters
I like to fancy myself a purple poet
Though my muse is often stoic
He dangles ideas above my head
Just out of reach making me beg
For one hint at greatness in a night
A song a poem the world’s delight
But I’m stuck in maroon mediocrity
Sailing to blue moon from black sea
Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack
There is no corner to get stuck.
You may pause to get a snack,
But again you hear the Tick,
Soon followed by the Tack —
Like Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack.
Money clinks to this rhythm,
Bodies wet and dry.
Faces smile and wrinkle,
Tears drop and dry
By Ticks and Tacks.
Pain comes and goes.
Trees dry and rain falls.
Wings cease to flap while
Realities turn to distant memories.
Like Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack
Children become parents,
Parents become kids,
And hearts stop their beat.
Days and nights run back to back.
The rhythm turns them to weeks, months, and years,
Steadily turning our ages to gold —
Like Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack.
Rise Up
Rise Up
Please Stand
Give yourself
A chance
You may have fallen
You didnt get stuck
You continued to Rise up
Rise past your circumstance
Rise past your faults
Rise past your mistakes
Rise and do whatever it takes
You can do it
It's not tough
Just remember to Rise Up
Rise up ,Yes you
You have
Alot to do
Even when times get tough ,
Dont stay there
Rise up
(Repeat 1x)
Rise up
To the challenge
Of being the better version of yourself
You can handle it
Rise Up
To the top
No matter what
Never Stop
Rise up
Elevate
You cant every one with you
Lessen your plate
Rise above
Do it with love
Rise up
Dont fall down
If you do
Dont hit the ground
Bounce back
Get on Track
Rise up ,Yes you
You have
Alot to do
Even when times get tough ,
Dont stay there
Rise up
(Repeat 1x)
Rise up
Stay humble
Even when you fumble
Dont get stuck
Continue to Rise Up
Rise up ,Yes you
You have
Alot to do
Even when times get tough ,
Dont stay there
Rise up
(Repeat until chorus fades)
Written by Concetta Hardnett
1/03/2026
The 13th Day still Plays
If you can hear
Let the fog clear
Nothing to fear
Signs all point another way
There are no words to say
The feelings felt
A new hands' been dealt
The Welcomes' worn
Let the illusion be torn
The time has struck
Remember to not get stuck
The road splits ahead, so choose
Give up, give in, nothing to lose
Two ways only, one dark and one light
Don't hesitate, there's only one right
Let go of everything that holds you down
And take the path with unstable ground
Don't do what you always do
Time for change,
Time for something new.
My mind searches for results,
Often at multiple times a day, like a dictionary, one may say.
I ask to define depth,
Something I can get stuck in for hours,
Whirl pooling blues, greys, even greens,
And just the odd streak of brown,
And endless darkness at the centre.
It’s something I am willing to search for again and again.
I ask to define soft,
Rougher edges of a pretence of harshness,
Melanin and melanin-lacking hay carved so imperfectly,
It tells me that I would sink within it if I were to indulge in you,
I shake my head and red appears when I do so.
I ask to define perfection,
And I receive nothing.
I ask to define target,
A framework for what we should all be,
Tender kindness that I am reminded of so often,
Unending ambition that I look forward to with a sickening sigh,
As your silhouette is what I have received.
It tells me to pursue you,
Something I will never do, but entertaining the thought is not so bad.
Your eyes, your softness, you.
That is the result of perfection, or what I know it as.
Sometimes life feels insipid,
like a meal cooked in a hurry__
no spice, no warmth, nothing to hold on to.
Maybe that’s when we get stuck
inside the straight lines of prose.
Sometimes life tastes heavenly
as the nectar of god in the paradise__
sweetness, fragrance, vitality, purity,
radiance all wisely compacted.
Yes, a poem is the nectar;
It slips into the heart quietly.
And for a moment,
we forget the noise, the weight__
we remember we’re alive.
Prose fills the stage of the universe
with the curtain fallen,
characters talking without words,
no emotion, no variety, darkness prevailed.
Those who love the fragile beginning of a verse
know how a single line can open a door.
Poetry grows like the way trees do—
not all at once, but constancy;
It bends with its own fruit,
it pleases, it heals,
and somehow becomes sweeter.
It is kindness in thought and diction__
a small drop of honey
that keeps the wandering heart from leaving.
Show me just how you drive that truck.
Is it real fast or do you take your time?
As they say in the sticks let’s get stuck.
I’m looking for you to feel my rhyme,
let’s play with experimental chemistry.
All that combustion could be sublime.
It’s impossible to let the elements be,
when they are determined to connect.
The periodic table covers you and me.
Overheated now leave me, I’m wrecked.
Shouldn’t have left the motor unchecked.
When in the U.S.A., and morning has broken,
'I'll fix breakfast,' are the words I heard spoken.
In reply, I would say, “To the kitchen I'll repair,
mend the coffee and, then, when I'm there,
what's more, I can restore the trash within our dustbin,
just refurbish the rubbish, and take it out, or leave it in.”
Altho' I tend not to be hungry, I've been supine all night,
yet I'll savour the flavour of her fine earthly delight(s).
Get stuck in and tuck in, with gusto, for a fry-up,
as 'shrooms, eggs, rashers and toms will all soon dry up.
But bring on the best of British brekkers,
black pudding, bangers and beans,
as bubble and squeak speaks to me,
if you know what I mean(s).
In younger days we booked a trip
And never gave a thought
To reasons we might cancel
And what refunds would be sought.
We rarely took insurance,
Health was not a big concern
And we never worried ‘bout the need
To suddenly return.
But age has made us cautious;
Carefree travel makes no sense
And by reading all the fine print,
Suddenly I’m on the fence.
Do we take a chance and go
Because our time is ticking fast
Or get stuck in the minutiae
‘Til the options have all passed?
There you are exposed to the lick of a big tongue
Even though you are a soft green which is beautiful
Away you go on your journey to another country
So much farther than you could go in real life
Maybe Luna Moth Stamp you will end up in
Paris, France or The Neverlands
Made from a high-resolution digital print
By the artist, Joseph Scheer
Such softness to the design
Soft brown, sunshine yellow
In a gentle curved style
I'm reminded of the morn when one lay dead on drive
Captured in print you can live on and on
Travel the world and maybe someday
Space travel will complete your journey
Or you might get stuck in a scrapbook
Luna Moth USPS Stamp life has much in store
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