My scars are roadmaps to a past
of places I thought I belonged
of places I never should have been to
and to where I never would belong.
One path led to a place of grand spirit and beauty
now silenced and long since overgrown.
He’s almost half-blind now
his right eye, oh my!
Once-fabulous hand-eye coordination
replaced by daily frustration
Doesn’t hear too well these days
"Again... Please repeat! What did you say?"
His spine looks like a barber’s pole
feels like a whack-a-mole
Hips stiffer than petrified wood
his walker does him little to no good
Knees like old-fashioned shoes, they buckle
if it weren’t for the agony, he’d chuckle
As for his feet, the bottoms have no feeling
the slightest crack in the pavement sends him reeling
But he’s determined to count his blessings
even if with his body nature seems to be messing
He can still see well enough to write a story
his left eye spared damage, thanks to God in all His glory
And the latest gossip he doesn’t have to hear
doesn’t even have to cover his ears
As for his crooked spine, mindfulness came with it as a gift
a practice - a habit - he now knows not to give short shrift
I could go on through the rest of his body's litany
but surely you already know ~ this poem is about me
a door left ajar~
not open,
not shut~
the quiet posture
of a reason
we’re still
trying to believe
There was a house.
There is a house.
There was a kite.
There is a kite.
There was a clock.
There is a clock.
When I
dig the earth
with a spade,
the earth falls into
the spade’s memoir.
The spade falls into
the earth’s memoir.
In the pond nearby,
a blue water-lily
does not fall
into anything.
It
calls out to the kingfishers,
saying,
Come,
have some fish and go.
Brewed with similar ingredients
as when baking bread,
a Maßkrug of beer in Germany
is called a 'glass sandwich' instead.
Yet, as half a loaf
is better than none,
if the glass is half full,
and another half empty,
of the two,
which is the optimal one?
~ She Reached Down My Pants ~
Went to the recent school dance
Was grabbed by a big, fat chance
Who reached down my pants
But what she wanted was missing
She settled for an hour of French kissing
~ She Was Homely, I Wanted Comely ~
My first date was, to put it mildly, slightly homely
I told her honestly I was seeking someone more comely
What’d she do? She spat in my eye
Told me I was a typical dull guy
'Cos if I wanted the latest gossip ~ with her I’d never be lonely
You said you wanted to hold me up in the sky,
But never made me the star.
You said you would never tell a lie,
Yet I saw that wasn't the truth, from afar.
You said I'm getting the signal unclear,
But you never let me have the right one.
Half a truth was never quite clear —
Half a love leaves nothing done.
Gurgling stream invisible,
drawn to its blithe bosom,
by edge of dawn kismet,
whose loiter and lurk in,
my peep of day ear satin,
taunts drowsy pallette vein,
with velvet sonic swerves,
unique, unseen, unfolding,
conjures a deep sensory,
whiff of innuendo imaged,
blurred eye phase paused,
red sun sears sleep crust,
salt gust imp tickles twitchy,
nose, my loyal guide dog,
whilst morning slumber,
thaws in trancelike mien,
to shed blind spot tramp,
a faint backwash swoosh,
now flags receding eddy,
near rapids hazy vision,
one can intuit in a blink,
but not quite glimpse!
A heavy sigh leaves me
As the quiet night shrouds my thoughts
I think to myself
Like a matchstick
Shining so bright
But not for long
Words to describe my behavior
A spark at first, only to be doused the wind
Even if not on purpose
The intensity gone
The thrill turned to smoke
I love everything yet love nothing
I admire the way and works of the world
Ideas cover my mind like an artwork
Though I see to no action
My spirit willing
My flesh weak
In chase of competence
I dress my self in the inconvenience
Of my actions
Though hurting
I turn a blind eye knowing what it costs me
" You have something going for you"
What exactly?
I am not complete
My fortress a glass box; Yet I hope for coverage.
Doubt is within
My stubborn nature acting as an armor
What do you think?
Half Time
A warning from the winds,
What the spirit carries: no fumbles.
It brings the stories of the sun to the touchdown!
Lessons from the huddle, from the coach,
Under a lunar eclipse.
Last game of the season,
In the third quarter-
We scramble for the setup.
Because our die-hard fans watch,
and our fragile lives loom on it.
Then, the snap.
The stadium noise fades into silence.
No roar from the fans, just a sigh in the air.
The inner motion of the play
is as the ball arches upward.
Suspended above the green turf.
A leap for the pylon, reaches for the end zone.
Where the home team claims its own.
The stadium clock strikes zero,
Frozen inbound waiting for their hero.
For the final score.
For the last thirty months, I have had nothing to smoke.
I said goodbye to cigarettes forever and that is no joke.
I stopped smoking on New Year's Day of 2024.
I decided that I didn't want to smoke anymore.
My uncle got lung cancer and it caused him to die.
When it came to cigarettes, I was able to say goodbye.
A twenty-four year difference
In the ages at the match
Means the older of the players
Has some wisdom to dispatch.
After all, she is a champion,
With many trophies won,
Her opponent at a point
Where her career has just begun.
Yet a twenty year old body
Still has spring that hasn’t sprung
And an arm or two that hasn’t
At a million forehands swung.
So at Wimbledon today, Serena,
Though she tried her best,
Got the crowds to cheer her on
But ultimately, failed the test.
They say age is just a number,
Which sounds nice, but truth be told,
It’s too hard to be competing
With somebody half as old.
It sat on the table from morning to twilight,
A cup they shared,
But now it belongs to one.
It remains on the table until the rising sun.
We don’t know who we are when we are apart.
Friendliness and love seem like a meadow of colourful and radiant petals.
Yet when we come together under one roof,
We begin to stay aloof.
A shared cup is a shared dream,
Streams flowing into a river,
But sometimes there’s an obstruction,
Creating a pathway for construction.
A glass half empty sits on his table.
He still awaits her.
He empties the cup when the day is done.
A routine he followed for a while until he was gone.
June 13, 2026.
Nette Onclaud,
All That Glass Poetry Contest.
Yield not to the theories of optimism and pessimism.
Be on the fulcrum.
If all lakes and rivers shallowed,
We would miss the beauty of raining.
Half filled is a good omen of achievement.
But half empty gives room for progress.
If everything provided,
Next of kin would lose exhilaration in living.
My waves of emotions have touched here one aspect only.
My verse still half-filled and half- empty.
Neither can be filled nor emptied.
It's nature’s phenomenon!
Place: 5
Do you want your glass half empty or half full?
That's like asking a dope on a rope
if he wants a push or a pull.
I might be asked
if I have a job half LEFT to do,
while you are asked
if that same job’s half finished for YOU.
Let’s make such questions stop
by having all jobs completely finished
and glasses all filled to the top!
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