You handed me the black Excalibur~
not a sword, but the silence
that grew between our sentences,
heavy with everything we wouldn’t say.
I tried to pull it free,
but the hilt was welded to your ribs,
and my fingers slipped
on the oil of old apologies.
What we had was never meant to be~
not like this, not with edges
that drew blood when we reached
across the bed, not with a scabbard
made of unspoken vows.
I left it buried in the threshold,
where the door couldn’t close,
where the light split itself
trying to choose a side.
Now it rusts in the rain,
a monument to the kingdom
we never ruled.
In nineteen fourteen there was the reality of a war, it was not wanted ( we were taught ) yet after 'two weeks.?' It would be
Over.! And what is more peace, would be
Forever..This was worth dying for.! Then
In the nineteen fortys in Germany those
holiday camps were built.' There were such great promises for any interested they
Were value to the hilt.' You were to be taken by rail, to where the air was clear plenty of exersize to tone your body there
Would be carnivals also to give you cheer
Twenty twenty and we needed a plan.' As
Heroes in unity, our health systems we were told could barely stand to a virulent
Attacker that would all before it sweep.'
And
In order to get the curve down flat there was a ' crucial vital two weeks?' There was
Bonhom'ie and denying youself..To the point of reporting anyone to assured of their integral health integrity, tested for thousands of years..Ridicule and ostracize
Was the advice.? Is how it played out i fear
I don't know about the reader.? But there almost seems a continous thread.? There
Is more than once the promise of great good times.. And they were only a fortnight
Ahead.)
Snow Fantasy or Christmas Nostalgia Poetry Contest, Constance La France, writing for theme 1
I am a queen
Like the ones in those movies with the sled dogs pulling them on sleighs
Except I don't want that for my dogs.
I am the sort of queen who walks elegantly
Though not in dresses because it's simply not practical.
I am the snow boot mistress
Securing my specialized soldiers as anything but listless.
I am a fair ruler
Though not pretty, I am just,
I am ferocious.
I wield my icicle sword by the hilt
And my hands don't get cold
For I am the Queen of Snow.
I am everything I want to be,
Living out my fantasy,
Until Mama calls me inside;
My cheeks are rosy
And it's heavily snowing
And the darkness is growing
And she has the fireplace roaring
And the tea is pouring
And it's almost time for dinner...
I can be a Queen again
Tomorrow
"The Match"
Time falls like a traitor
it smiles at you through mirrors
you see all faces surrounding you
other than your own
each a voice imprinted in your memories
a part of the Word's words,
remonstrations tumbling
through your voiceless throat,
they respond hitting the walls
leaving hollow hieroglyphs
promises that slip,
some self-righteous Umpire
calls the serve landing out of bounds
and doesn’t hesitate to record a fault;
through the backhand grip
your own thoughts
are ghost written volleys
that skim without hesitation
over the net
bouncing towards
the inexperienced experienced
their hearts,
hands, eyes, and lips
the memories are lost in unplugged sockets
still,
they take they’re hit
you smash it back
full hilt;
you think you are electric
time falls like a traitor
and everyone
in their own mind
one way or another
thinks they’re in the game
a winner,
even loser’s think
they’re winners in the end,
they take their hit;
love-all
just the same
and you are lit.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
Is
Unwriting lend
Trample undered doubt
Nill grace, staggered taunt
Farthings tormented delays
Whispered daughter on hilt
Aphrodite sours the lengths rend
Milkened ponds
Battles fetch, torn and bent
To no hearthed bends hallow he crawls
I gazed into my husband’s eyes.
Eyes once borne by my daughter.
Agamemnon upon Mycenaean soil once more.
I embraced him as a figure crept out of the shadows.
Aegisthus slipped the knife’s hilt silently into my hand.
Agamemnon now forever lay beneath the land.
I found a blade beside the rose,
its silver kissed by morning’s close;
It caught the sun as if to keep
the fire warm while earth still sleeps.
It did not stir when I drew near,
nor tremble with a hint of fear;
It seemed to watch, in patient grace,
the wind that touched its polished face.
A vine had curled around its hilt,
like memory round the things we’ve built;
And rain had carved, in tiny streams,
the stories only metal dreams.
I reached to lift it from the ground,
and heard a low, unshaken sound—
The whisper steel will sometimes say:
“My edge was honed for more than play.”
Yet still it let my fingers hold,
its weight both steady, warm, and cold;
And in that moment, I could see
the storm it was, the calm it’d be.
I couldn't give a toss for the caber
cromach bagpipes sporran or kilt
(a fling's the thing)
and you can stick your dirk in your haggis
up to its bog-wood hilt
yet I'd like to hike through the heather
on happy Sassenach holidays
see the scenery admire the view
along Scottish hilly highways and byways
to pick a pink-purple thistle or two
and should I come upon a hairy Highland cow
on the hoof in a friendly farmer's flink fold
(for protection from the cold)
in no uncertain terms I would declare
"I say to you, hoo noo broon coo?"
och aye no sooner said than done
than perchance from the Caledonian bovine one
the reply too true in a Scots burr would come...
'Moo!'
A knife lie in her bed, her hand rests atop the hilt.
The satin maple bed frame lie bare beneath her fingers,
And the aliferous knife lie skin warm in the cradle of her hand.
A pile of gossamer shavings grow on her sheets,
Surrounded by splinters near her pillow-
concealed by soft down.
She awaits the conception of a fish,
Sat in the pillar of her crib.
She pictures she’s an old wiseman, with an Appalachian drawl
Widdleing on his back porch- rocking on a pine chair
The bones of her fish turn crimson-
A red herring
The laceration in her thumb lolls a bright serum
She was stopped by worry, but then she recalled-
That’s what the knife was for anyways
Another HooDoo
I Know You're Very Serious
Following Your Plan
But I Don't Seem To Play-Right
Any Way I Can.
I'm Just Another HooDoo
Picking Up A Scar!
Inviting 'Sober Mines' To Ask:
"HooDoo You Think You Are?"
I'm This I'm That
I'm Everything
I'm Nothing,
If Not Odd.
I Run The Range
I Ride The Slopes
I Saw The Face Of God.
But Anger Will Seduce Me
And Slicing Through With Guilt,
Will Wipe It's Blade In
Sad Charade,
Then Stuff It To
The Hilt.
Our Thoughts Can Come From Anywhere,
But, Mostly Not From You.
I Don't Share All Your Sympathy,
I Don't Care If You Do.
The Beasts Will Soon Arrive Again...
So I'm Off To Explore.
No I Won't Let It "Hit My Ass'"
As I Walk Out The Door.
I Cannot Cull Your Anger,
You've Bought It From Afar.
But I Still LOVE That Question:
"HooDoo You Think You Are?"
-Gray Squirrel
05-25-2025
Apologies
If I say I'm sorry
I will get my way
Your thinking to sway
Apology to look good
Narcissism under the hood
For me everyone will root
Apology to provoke guilt
Creates self-doubt to the hilt
Blame to you will shift
Apologies made from half truth
My own feelings to soothe
Everyone thinks I stand on truth
Apologies to put it in the past
Knowing fake peace won't last
Over you a shadow will cast
Apologies made but nothing changes
To break you down in stages
Slowly your mind deranges
Apologies not from the heart
When you never state your part
Will always tear us apart
By Cathrin Stuart
Forget riffs of regrets
But
To the hilt
We tilt to
Inbuilt lilt
A guilt quilt
Can jilt & wilt
But
No tiffs with what ifs
Won’t let you fret
Circumspect.. I find
Older you get
Bet..more honest…more kind
Care more..know more
Late bloomer rumour
Embraces candour...humour
Respect velvety vagaries
Traces of reflect
Suspect future’s the tutor
Detect serendipity the suitor
Evolution..glints of revolution
Pip that convoluted New Year’s tip
Genuinely don’t genuflect
No sorrow...deflect hints
Of mooted rebooted resolution
Suspect Tomorrow might
Be your best day yet!
The moon would be a dull, gray rock without the Sun's light.
An opinion would be a thought without one's voice.
A man would be useless without a purpose.
So, all the men that stand before me are nothing,
as they brandish their swords;
squeezing the hilt like my throat,
constricting the words from it before they're even spoken.
My men were tethered to Earth,
they tortured themselves daily for fleeting escape.
My luminous glow was their temptation, their envy.
As I was the moon;
a quiet beauty that spoke volumes.
My men chip away at my craters, their shadow swallowing the Sun's last rays.
I am now a rock;
Stoic, rigid.
Ruthless. Ruinous.
The light drained from my now-hollowed features.
A merciless wreckage pounded into rock, hollowed from its light.
I've done bad, I'm full of guilt.
I deserve punishment to the hilt.
You've every reason - sure, you've got 'em.
So, whack me soundly on my bottom,
but please, oh please, don't give me a lecture
on Renaissance architecture.
Snow Angels, Snowpeople, and Evergreen Trees
When winter comes, children know how to have fun.
Laughing and catching snowflakes with their tongues
Or lying flat on their backs with arms flapping up and down
While swinging their legs in and out in unison,
Then carefully standing up to step out of the area
To marvel upon the angel shapes they’ve created.
Or roll sticky snow into balls piled upon each
To form snowpeople with stickily arms and no feet,
And coal chunk eyes and smiling lips, and buttoned-up chests
And old scarves wrapped around their necks,
With carrots for their noses and old, worn-out hats on their heads;
That almost made them look real, so the children nodded and said.
And evergreen trees they love to decorate to the hilt,
With pretty ornaments, hanging icicles, and tinsel strings,
And swirls and twirls of twinkling lights wrapped around the tree
And a star of wonder, shining innocently, adorning the top,
With presents underneath wrapped in colourful tissue paper.
The first one to sleep is the first one to rise, come Christmas morning.
***
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