Looking out on a lovely garden
flowers so beautiful in every colour
here on holiday on the English coastline
this summer scene is like no other
Such a delightful picture to look upon
but there's a blur to all of this
in the ground deep in the earth
these dreaded weeds you can't miss
They get in among your flowers
wasting your view of the loveliness
you wish to be rid of them for good
which are so filled with ugliness
Working to physically root them out
is a sure way to break your back
giving you a pain that is agony
that's the price that weeds will attack
One answer is to plant artificial grass
which is a very costly thing to do
so it takes hard work to truly kill weeds
no easy answer can be seen in view
(Just some thoughts on holiday last month on the damage that weeds can do to a beautiful garden.)
OBLITERATED
THAT IS WHAT DONALD TRUMP SAID
MORE PERSONNEL DEAD
Brilliant execution
Orders followed
Self preservation
Far from battle
Cloistered warmly, safe
Divinely chosen to sit
In Bill's house on the hill
Awaiting the body count
Lives snuffed out
Two years ago
Did not go away
Now back to haunt
Karma is real; payback
In other lives and places
Time's a continuum
Matter's indestructible
Technology floods our senses and sensibilities
~ The world’s woes overwhelm our capabilities
Where far fails to name the distance,
I saw your tender glance
in the darkest hours of night.
Your flickering eyes.. ever so bright..
hung softly
in the quiet folds of nature’s canvas.
I remember those eyes that followed me,
flashing silent heartbeats of love,
then haunting me
amid the mourning whiteness of death.
When this land turns foreign to me,
I will cross the distance back
for you..
for the eyes I lost.
You will come with me, I am sure,
and together we will lean
from the edge of the night sky,
looking down at what we missed.
Then we will lend our light
to souls stranded
at the darkest crossroads..
brighten their faces, just a little,
if they search
for distant hope,
enough light for someone to keep going.
It was a moonlit thought and,
When the whole world was masked,
I met a midnight blur,
A breathing whisper!
There was never a costume,
But oh the mystery clung to you like mist,
A magic I didn't see coming,
But now the story I keep rereading...
It was the kind of haunting that didn't hurt,
It was pure. It was alive.
Every wind whispered a maybe,
Just like the whole world knew your name.
Your eyes - spells so deep,
Made the dark feel like home.
You were never mine to begin, it's true...
But darling, I think I was always haunted by you, beautifully!
In my mind, she still survives
The smallest hand, I held on tight
Not tight enough – this memory revives
The moment when she left the fight
A fight between her and a dark disease
The story is so old – but I must tell it
It’s so long past, but I fall to my knees
Praying for relief – yes, I’ll definitely admit…
My heart still beats when I hear her name
Flooded with a feeling, such a deep pain
Still blaming, the shame– oh, nothing is the same
She haunts my heart so I’m almost insane
Image : 3
In water dark, I learn to drown
A silence colder than the sea
The ghosts I fled still pull me up
In water dark
He haunts the edge where I should be
A memory I never chose
Still carves his name inside of me
He finds me gasping, cold, stripped bare
Each time I hide, he leaves a mark
I bleed unseen in wounded air
In water dark
You’re the tame auspiciously lurking in the still of my nightmares, frivolously evicting the static that haunts my memories, illuminating this frantic mind if even for a second.
Crippling the narrow minded ways in which I’ve become entrapped, a one way road futile in substance and willingness to succeed
The savior of superficiality aligning the monstrosity of a broken roar, promising problems putter to the likening of a minuscule oblivion
Sometimes I wonder,
if I’m wasting my seconds
trying to prove love
lasts longer
when you drown it with gin.
Her ghost circles back—
again, again—
the Poppy wears
a saccharine, serrated grin—
(oh, how I’ve missed it)
nestled among
my worn-out keycaps.
I didn’t mean to write her—
I keep pressing delete—
But she never blinks.
That's when I know–
I must
write and write and write and write—
or she erases me.
You made me cry,
Your actions hurt my heart,
I should’ve known,
We were broken from the start.
I thought I knew you,
But you aren’t who I thought you were,
You’re heartless,
And a monster.
I loved you,
You didn’t want me,
Now, whenever I look at you,
Your eyes haunt me.
I have too many regrets
they bloom like tumors
in the soft tissue of memory,
each one pulsing with
what I should have said
before silence set in
like rigor mortis.
I swallowed whole versions of myself
the reckless, the brave,
the boy who ran
before the door slammed shut.
Now I speak in echoes
of things I almost did.
I wear lives
that were never mine
borrowed skin
stitched with trembling hands.
Time doesn’t pass.
It repeats.
A loop of almosts,
a static scream
beneath my breath.
I reach for moments
already burning.
Beg the past
to hold still
while I cut it open
and try to crawl inside.
But every thread frays.
Every version unravels.
Every choice I didn’t make
drags a knife
through the one that did.
And what’s left?
This composite ghost.
This broken archive.
This aching
palimpsest of a person
who once believed
he had time.
She sails where the bayou kisses the tide,
a phantom queen with a mournful glide.
The paddle churns, though no hands steer,
and jazz floats faint on a breeze unclear.
Her lanterns burn with a ghostly hue,
casting gold on waters black and blue.
No passengers board, no voices ring--
just whispers soft as a violin string.
The captain’s hat is dust and bone,
his eyes like coals, his soul long gone.
He tips his brim to the moonlit shore,
forever sailing, seeking more.
Beneath her decks are cards and gin,
dice that roll where life wore thin.
The laughter echoes through the years--
a masquerade of silent cheers.
They say she sank in 'twenty-four,
but rose again with something more.
A curse, a pact, or prayer gone wrong--
now midnight is her siren song.
If you hear her horn on a still, dark night,
don’t follow the sound or seek the light.
For once aboard, you’ll never disembark--
your name etched in the ledger of the dark.
Alesia Leach © 4/2025
it began with a creak,
low and hollow,
as if the staircase exhaled a secret
meant only for me.
at first, i told myself it was nothing—
just the old bones of the house shifting,
just the wind brushing the eaves.
but then came the whisper:
soft, deliberate,
threading through the night like cold fingers.
“come closer,” it said.
i stayed still.
the air thickened.
my heart tapped out a rhythm of warnings,
but my feet moved anyway,
dragged by some unseen thread.
the stairs groaned louder with every step,
their song ancient, mournful, alive.
at the bottom, the dark opened wide—
a void where the walls used to be.
and there, in the center,
a door i had never seen,
its edges slick with something
that shimmered even in shadow.
my hand trembled as it touched the handle,
a warmth pulsing beneath my palm.
the door opened,
and i saw—
no, felt—
a thousand eyes turn toward me.
i slammed it shut,
but the whispers remain.
they follow me now,
each night,
each dream,
calling me back to the stairs.
Vague memories haunt me still,
they come whether sadness or thrill,
too often at the very worst time,
it rings in my head, a Pavlov chime,
some reactions are unrehearsed,
but at the same time I feel versed,
like a dark coffee my actions appear bold,
when in turn, inside I break and fold,
you, most of all, don't deserve this exposure,
twisted memories becoming my composer.
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