Written: July 21, 2026 for a contest sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
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Wide leafy cradle for the westward air,
The fruit of twilight ripens in stillness.
My soul tugs at a glittering green, bare.
Sighs cover the silky vines of dimness.
It whispers below the gilt repose of dusk's rage,
Brooks warble amid the slow breath of night.
The wind's hammock rattles the soul's cage,
Till hearts unburden what load shows in quiet.
The one you respect
The one you need fear
Is the one who elect
Is the one who sear
The one you cherish
The one you admire
Is the one that perish
Is the one who misfire
Who is who
Between the two
One is the creator
Else an inventor
Loose to gain
Seek to win
Leave all the vain
And cherish the main
We all envy
The hall of their fame
Setting far agony
The pride of an unknown game
Choose today
Not for the pay
Admit the guilt
Far stray the gilt
You have the choice
Life or death
How today so rejoice
Learn the stake of thy breath
The one you choose to help your dream
Still have consent of 'TO DO' from Him
In the winding mansion
long bereft of dancers
and high born lovers
a wild moan echoes
through chambers of gilt
where Lady Elise dwelt
marooned in blood sorrow
for her precious lord
mangled upon marbled floors
when guards turned foe
and warred with saints.
dust-hushed
spine-cracked whispers~
words trapped in vellum veins
ghosts thumbing gilt-edged tragedies
quiet
On Halloween, someone
Wore Jackie’s pink suit,
All spattered with blood –
She thought it a hoot.
The Rose Garden’s gone
Like the East Wing’s demise,
Though none of these acts
Should be any surprise.
We live in a time
Where behavior’s debased
And where gilt covers up
All the class it’s replaced.
With a leader unhinged
And the government cowed,
Will we ever regain
What once made us so proud?
Our Jacqueline days
Have been dragged through the mud
When now people can laugh
About feces* and blood.
*Truth Social showed an AI-generated
video of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named
in a fighter jet dropping feces on “No Kings”
protesters.
Young, barefoot across
wet grass and dandelions~
child's constant world of plunder
Golden years of time
gilt leaves turn colors of art~
days smile pleasant memories
10-1-2025
in the mouth of desire, inverted spires
lean toward the grots of Hell.
tongues forked, skewered with sapphires
in the mouth of desire, inverted spires.
Adam's apple burning cores, as moths for martyrdom's fires.
on the path to perdition: many had attended well.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs.
the crone fanning her cauldron
a hot vat of ruin, Wiccan shrieks and whirs.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs -
a warlock's cherished heart of burrs,
tears of crocodiles, his every gentleness abandoned.
in the mouth of desire, sirens sweet, curses
lure purple wearers and weavers, beasts with saints,
low_down to the broad gates, gilt black, swinging purses.
in the mouth of desire, sirens' sweet curses
but wisdom's rare jewels, bereft in their verses.
for want of wisdom, man's sovereign will faints.
One man’s opulence another
Might consider tacky,
Especially when catered to
By every spineless lackey.
Yet those who rake in riches
As their empire’s being built
Should, if empathy at all exists,
Feel just a little guilt.
So many struggle just to live
While barely getting by;
Still, we hear of millions being spent
By those who rule on high.
A little gilt can be too much
And for a would-be king,
A little guilt, at least, should come
From those who kiss his ring.
Somedays I'm a pale apple wishing to be a tangerine.
Fantasy focused fulfillment fondles favored dreams.
Enthrall me free amid emerald enthused energy
while softly snuggle wrapped in sensual satin sheets.
Let gleaming gilt threads golden gloss this glorious bed.
May lyrical lilacs air link to lift and softly dance while
harmony twists and polished peace dips to dazzle me.
I shiver, smile and sigh sensing supreme sheen in sky
and see a grand ground gushing a generous grassy green.
Somedays I'm a pale apple wishing to be a tangerine.
"Every sunrise gives you a new beginning and a new ending." Norton Juster
****************************************************************
Sunrise at Early Morn
With the rise of the sun at early morn
Darting silver rays as from break of dawn
Lush leafy trees sparkle on distant hills,
Cane plants shine with gilt tints in nearby fields
Flowers open their petals to the sun
Bees dance in the midst of blooms seeking fun
Birds start to hum their cheerful morning songs
Hop from branch to branch clutching on along
Some grass to shape their nest atop a tree
Or just flutter in the calm air carefree.
In the onyx darkness of night,
on faint forest path out of sight,
I need to walk with no worry.
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
I’ve lost the track of time drawn deep,
in faith I’ve promises to keep.
To reach the fate’s edge I’m weary,
I seek God’s blessings to guide me
A dark pall of pain hangs with wrath,
can’t find the end of distress path.
My mind is gripped by agony,
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
I see the rise of new sun bright,
floods me with flash of divine light.
Out of forlorn moments’ debris,
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
Let His gilt rays show me the way
to my last home on the bliss bay.
Holy gleam lights soul, I foresee.
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
To heavenly glow of splendor
with devotion I surrender.
With great trust I devoutly plea,
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
If you’re crushed by misery wheel,
the supreme healing touch you’ll feel,
I’ll embrace you with empathy.
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
I don't know any happy
super rich people -- a
friend of wealth once
told me: "See all this,
a huge property and
home, dripping gold
gilt, "I have nothing...."
I thought, myself spared
leaving, as I gave my vehicle
the usual primer finessing of
the gas pedal, before it would
prayerfully start --
Of course, having spent much
of my life with those suffering, I
have dried many an impoverished
tear, and know no joyful hungered
belly --
I often conclude, the best of my
blessings found somewhere between
two hells -- bellow the peak of
Supreme Religious Zealots, just above
The Valley of Heretics -- best years
recalled, are middle-age....
God's grace and love independent
of experience or knowledge --
Having abundance is opportunity
to better the lives of less fortunate
others....
Stone clad hotels and banks,
stone-faced facades.
Stone monuments carved by old money.
The stone-poor have no stone history,
they will leave no archeology
to be excavated and raised.
Their throw-away artifacts
go to the landfills,
If they have stone. it must be dug up
to clear the way for more hard-scabble.
Here is a celluloid picture,
I am in my prime,
a pretty woman by my side,
we walk a downtown boulevard
where solid stone is raised high.
The image engenders another image,
that same photograph
bursting into flame,
now curling to ash in a grand chimney
and hearthside,
a fireplace that speaks
of an opulent and gilt-edged wealth -
one built of an ageless and abiding
stone.
On the wings of southern wind I flew
over the tinted valley of flowers,
till I reached the yonder plateau,
bathed in the bright sunshine shower.
The panorama of autumn I could see
on the color-clad gilded canopy of trees.
To balance on the boughs I got a chance,
feel the rhythm of their swaying rhapsody.
As the leaves of gilt in wind began to dance,
the ripples of joy rolled within me.
While the convoy of colors carried my shadow,
I saw spellbound the splendid show.
My lone journey would end someday,
I won’t forget the thrilling times I embraced.
In new years to the sky’s edge I’d drift away,
in the twilight zone I won’t see the past erased.
In year-end cold nights when time would freeze,
for the new years I’d fill my mind with golden trees.
Windswept, the rows of leaves descent.
Bereft the bare of toppling dreamt.
The lamb of fluffiness gives clue.
A pram does shake with laughter coo.
The revenue of shapes and hues,
For heaven sweeps, creates such views.
Plush yards of harvest dreams full tilt.
Postcards of dawn or dusk and gilt.
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