Outside the corner market,
a chartreuse pharmacy sign
buzzes above rain-dark pavement.
Its color reminds me of leaves
caught midway
between
staying and
letting go.
I didn't notice old age arriving.
Not in the mirror.
Not in the slow
accumulation
of reading glasses,
prescriptions, and
retirement brochures.
It found me instead
standing at a crosswalk
in a beret cap I once thought
belonged to old beatniks.
Beside me,
a delivery cyclist
waits for the light.
Across the street,
young faces glow
blue-white
in restaurant windows.
The city gathers its harvest~
office towers emptying,
subway grates exhaling,
headlights filling with dusk.
For a moment,
anxiety returns,
familiar as an address
I remember by heart.
The traffic signal changes.
Steam rises from the grates.
The crowd moves on.
In a restaurant window,
a young stranger walks
beside me.
For a moment,
we wear the same face.
Then,
dusk keeps his name and
gives me mine.
Old prune face..Geeze what a boat race.'
Talking (a piece?) It aint great ! In fact it
Shore grates. He kalidoscopes the living
Hell pontificating, on what should gel.?
He has a plan.' Well what is new.? Not this
G O A T of evil...I'd warrant that one thing is very true
“For he shatters the doors of bronze and cuts in two the bars of iron.” — Psalm 107:16
The foundry's quiet as a catacomb as I open up doors alone,
the furnace quiet in the back, molding cars still on their tracks.
Products of our previous toil, blood sweat, tears, and maybe oil.
Walking through a habit learned, do not touch lest one get burned.
Footsteps echo on the grates; I pass behind the tank of hate.
The lake of fire all contained, bound by steel and God's domain.
The water runs both day and night, keeping hell inside its shell,
for if the raging beast escapes, the iron bends. And the concrete breaks.
Stifling heat caress my lungs, within the path of grit,
it takes my breath and begs my soul—submit.
As I make my way into the yard, stumble on some steely shards,
skids and forklifts standing by; they look at me and ask me why?
The heavy doors announce a groan, the peace of man who walks alone.
The lights ignite the blackened pits, of auto cast and rust and grit.
And in the back, the beast awaits, the men of iron beyond the gates.
The Pensive Poet Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom
Soren Kirkegaard
I ignore the voice of someone
shouting at the television
in the living room.
His voice grates.
My hand jitters as I open
the laptop. A blank page waits
and there’s just an hour before
I must go to work.
I desire to pull lines
from the air and let
them breathe.
I take a deep breath
And sigh. There’s so little time—
I recall time lost when scurrying
through life/ Again something
tugs at my sleeve, demanding
attention. I ask for a moment.
Clouds drift through the sky
before the storm, the thunderclap
but I always wait for silence.
A golden mote grates
on dusky blue
portent of divine excellence
radiant white nestling
in the humble nook
honed by an oyster
who unveils prized secrets
of the deep
in shadowed places.
How do I explain the landscape
Grapes slightly budding
My glass is full of red and Rosé
Dandelions, daisies, purple flowers
The hills descend with dizzy steps
I don’t leap; I don’t fall
for miles and more, I place poles
They hold me steady
On cobblestone, pavement, on dirt
In puddles, past grates
To church we go, by foot
A small village parish
Takes a long time
Without wine
Not whining
Legs keep going
Resting back at the house
For miles and miles
Lids open and close
Pouring a glass of red and Rosé
Piece of light cake
On my plate
Coffee and cream
Until potato dumplings, meat, sauerkraut
Vanilla ice cream with strawberries
I earned it
The scale won’t dare show
Any gain, or loss
An assemblage of stones and grass
poses to reveal a canopy of clouds
trailing like petioles of luster beneath
my head, air-stroked by eve's approach.
I feel the hours passing wretchedly unhurried
as nimbus fog breathes of radiance,
not partly dim but like a tiara
warmly shimmering, glossing over its cape
in daring pink...transforming in a blink;
flare of haze bursting in the air.
Wondering if I should turn away from this dazzling
spectacle of colored skyfoam ,
I watch my body writhe in disgust, this soul raked
with discontent where the burden of beauty grates this skin :
Till cloudscape evanesces, reminding me of past anger
unfinished --which mirrors my autumnal haze,
lingering ... still.
Halloween is like a spleen.
Busted up, hurts, and patches.
Then I saw worms splashing around.
The stardust glazed over.
Halloween is a fog-monster.
Just eats stuff like a blast of cool air.
Groaning cauldron.
Enough mess to carry me away.
Halloween gobbles me up like something that spins.
Or has pins and needles that are invisible.
The stardust makes me do it.
And the mush halts me.
Halloween is like a molding miracle.
Halloween hats and grimacing.
Nothing between the grates.
Just me and a sewer somewhere.
Halloween snatches me up like a garbage truck.
Halloween is like organs and mush together.
Halloween is a bone on top of a mountain.
Halloween has a lot to say!
I gave up all of my inhibitions.
Sat in the cauldron with nothing else inside.
Expected something-
Unsettling.
As you move, I see the falseness in each stride,
A puppet of deceit, with nothing left to hide.
Every gesture, once genuine, now feels forced,
A facade crumbling, revealing your true course.
Your words drip with venom, leaving a bitter taste,
A sharp sting that lingers, hard to erase.
Your voice, once soothing, now grates like nails,
Each syllable a dagger, a story that fails.
I watch your smile, now twisted and sly,
The deceit in your eyes is impossible to deny.
Your touch, once warm, now feels like ice,
A chill that spreads, devoid of any vice.
Your laughter, hollow and false,
Promising kindness, hiding the malice it scrawls.
The warmth you once radiated now feels cold,
A presence that darkens, making me fold.
~~~
There is a piece I've longed to share,
which, up 'til now, I wouldn't dare,
where courage pushes fear aside
and shackles up my foolish pride...
To put to words, as much for me,
affection in simplicity,
and say those things I wished I could...
that chance may now be gone for good.
I near succumbed to COVID's wrath;
now, barricades deny clear path -
a bottleneck for oxygen.
So much to tell; where to begin?
A battle raged; a drawn-out war
that ended with a winning score:
I pulled ahead - a blessed reprieve;
the reaper's gone; yet, still, I grieve.
For scars remain; we coexist.
Not given up; I will persist,
but dreams? There was one 'mong the few:
to hold you close and sing for you...
A tune that melds our hearts together,
and keeps us warm through stormy weather,
a lullaby to ease all fear
and let you know how much I care.
But vocals won't cooperate;
on ev'ry nerve the raucous grates.
Those singing days are done, it seems;
some visions, sadly, dwell in dreams.
If fate insists that I must wait,
this voice will ring at Heaven's gate!
So, pardon, if I'm way off-tune;
at least, at last, Love will shine through!!
Jodie
5/23/25
The city exhales steam like a tired beast,
its breath pooling in alleyways
where no one walks anymore.
Cold, wet cobblestones gleam
like the backs of forgotten coins,
each one holding a secret
you must step lightly not to disturb.
Streetlamps blink like they’re remembering
how to dream—
orange halos shivering on the slick asphalt,
casting shadows
with no one to belong to.
Shop windows sleep behind
grimy glass and rolled-down gates,
whispering to each other
in the hush of the sodium dark.
Rain slicks the world into a mirror
and I walk through it—
a ripple in the ghost of a market square,
where footsteps echo
as if they're unsure
whether they’re mine or someone else's
long gone.
Neon signs flicker with old jazz—
an inaudible tune,
all hush and blue
and the smell of wet iron
lingering like a lover's forgotten scarf.
I am alone, but the night is not empty.
It is full of watching things—
brick mouths and sewer grates,
broken clocks stuck at almost midnight,
windows that sigh when no one’s listening.
The city speaks its truest voice
only when no one asks.
Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt.
Blink razors carve her iris script.
Rib stars ovulate in feral grates,
mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath.
Keystroke ruin writes in collapse,
a waveform lodged in sternum glass.
Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim
Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts.
Tree-call through copper root systems.
Wire-pluck storm,
vapor chews the stock market
Cancer caught in molar hush,
brined in citrine static.
She opens her throat like a coin purse.
Spine bows in semaphore.
We dismount the edge—
An incisor cusp,
the confession still blistering
beneath the flesh of no language.
(The Hollow City Cycle include:
The Hollow City
I Remember You -- the city speaks
Last One Left)
You left me when the lights flickered
and the water turned bitter.
When the sky coughed ash
and the birds stopped singing.
You ran.
All of you.
As if I hadn’t held your every heartbeat
in the bricks of my spine.
I fed your dreams--
from paper boys to prophets.
I kept your secrets
in sewer grates and sun-warmed benches.
I lit your windows,
caught your tears,
sheltered your sins.
And now--
the vines know my name.
The weeds whisper lullabies
where children once screamed.
The wind is my voice,
and it remembers.
Don’t come back
to grieve what you abandoned.
I have roots now.
And bones.
Saturn's rings mystify me indeed!
All seem bound with no purpose or need.
Spinning boulders and ice-
pictures of them add spice.
In the end, where will good answers lead?
But last night I woke up from strange dreams;
found I landed by way of moonbeams!
To my greatest surprise
right in front of my eyes-
Large space monsters fast led to my screams!
The group traveled on magical skates
fixed beneath monster dumpsters with grates-
which then opened to spread
the trapped boulders instead
of their roaming around with bad fates.
They sprawled tons of old space-filled debris,
and I gathered from what I could see,
kept those rings plumped up well;
captured for a long spell
eased collisions in our Galaxy!
Now, I know that these facts aren't true
cause that's not how those circles accrue!
Magnetism makes rings,
space debris spins, and clings!
So, this theme earned my fun poet's view!
By barren sands, the weary streets do sprawl,
Where voices rattle in the iron dusk,
And hollow laughter rises, wan and thin.
The city groans beneath a leaden sky,
Where smoke and sorrow mingle, thick and gray,
A wasteland woven close with wire and sin.
We shuffle on, led by the shuffling feet,
The broken rhythm of the heartless heart,
As neon blinks and chokes with dying light.
Desire whispers in the crowded dark,
Promises drift in currents cold and stale,
And hope clings tight to shadows out of sight.
Here memory fades like water down the drain,
Filtered through grates of time and rusted hate.
The children play, the elders stare, alone,
Each captive in a glassy cage of bones.
Yet still, I trace faint roots of hidden springs,
In ruins, soft as moths, a life begins.
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