—A Cosmography of Wound—
How deep the scar, where starry measures cease,
And sable gulfs unhouse their hoarded fire;
Where suns attenuate, bereft of peace,
And bleed through night the embers of desire;
Each constellation sheds its given name,
And argent heavens fracture into me;
The Milky Way unthreads its vestal flame,
Till blood becomes its dark infinity.
Then bends the Sun, drawn inward through my scar,
Its aureate empire yielding to the night;
Whilst Time lets fall its centuries afar,
And deathless darkness drinks the last of light.
Yet one red pulse persists beneath the scar:
I am the wound by which they learn how far.
Softly, starlight slippers through silver leaves,
salving slender branches where willows keep their weeping vigil.
A sighing wind weaves grief’s misty purple veils,
hesitantly floating before sweeping down;
valley tears, fern quivering, blend with those heavy clouds weep.
Moss in variegated green feathers, paves paths primitive,
moonlight lends gray gloved hand to guide faltering feet,
trembling on cliff-sharp edge of blackest night,
stumbling forward, tracking an unmapped grief labyrinth.
Heart of mine, spent by the merciless beat,
lean hard upon hoarded memories, bittersweet.
Life, after such sharp parting, shields her flame,
tended as a mother tends her sleeping dear,
softly repeating through the night one poignant name
that only she who bore the pain can hear
in accents of the heart so sweetly clear,
echoing faint chords from the heavenly sphere.
Perhaps time dulls the sadness, keen,
or drives it deeper to a place unseen.
Copyright, July 1, 2026
#1
eroding hooded in-
fantry hounds endure
rear entry neutron edific-
ation
#2
ninety hidden round-
heads defied the
nations's fourth and
vinyl deity
#3
handy indentured Randy
hoed the feud from his
rooftop redoubt
#4
though yearning for
funds i found
knot butt frauds in my
yard
#5
tiny fading freon
nodes adore yon
daring radon onions
#6
reading frothy innu-
endo is only
funny when the
rhino's red hooves have
little or no foundation
#7
not so ornery
fiends hand out in-
ordinate amounts of
Henry's once hoarded
fortune
He collected false teeth
Vintage wooden legs
Ancient wooden clogs
Toed with metal segs.
He hoarded his collections
Hidden out of sight
Would peruse them with joy
In the middle of the night.
He moved on to hairpieces
And didn’t give a fig
About the methods he used
To acquire a new wig.
When he met Mary Jones
New desires entered His life
Which became full of joy when
She agreed to become his wife
She was an avid collector of
Effects and trivia of Devon
And so in truth they were
A match made in heaven.
With their various collections
Filling their house to the rafter
They went and moved to Thailand
Where they lived happily ever after.
It drops into your palm at dawn,
Eighty-six thousand, four hundred strong.
No safe to hold it, no bank to lend,
Only this: you must spend, and spend.
A coin of seconds, fleeting and bright,
Spent on the darkness, or spent on the light.
You trade it for laughter, a tear, or a dream,
Slipping away like a silent stream.
You cannot buy back what you spent on the wasted,
Nor reclaim the joy that you already tasted.
It pays for the wisdom, it pays for the pain,
It cannot be hoarded, it cannot remain.
So guard your wallet, this wallet of hours,
Don’t trade it for weeds, but nurture the flowers.
For every heartbeat is a spendable note,
A quiet transaction on which you must vote.
Spend it on love, on growth, or what’s true—
For the currency of time is bought only by you.
Once gone, it is lost, a memory, a sign,
That you spent your life upon the divine.
I am learning to live
with what is broken,
the things I haven't
the power or the will
to mend. Such have
multiplied with age,
become obstacles
I navigate around
or push to the sides
of my mind. Some
have been endowed
with a saving charm.
A loose pale
on the front fence,
the window that no longer
opens, all the surfaces
crying out for a coat
of paint - become
mere imperfections
added to the list
of the unimportant.
My gaze is elsewhere,
some inner point
of focus, a far off
flicker of light
deep within.
Here too
are broken things
a lifetime has hoarded
and remain unmended.
These are harder
to live with, navigate
around or ignore.
They come with guilt
and regret, turn toxic
when not forgiven.
I am learning to live
with what is broken,
letting go of myself.
The horsemen rode as it was foretold
The cherished Earth would soon explode
The seals were opened, and love grew cold
While they hoarded their silver and gold
The stars came falling down
And many trembled with fear
A reckoning would soon take place
As angels flew from here to there
Then the trumpets began to sound
The sea sighed and the mountains wept
From the sky, the Earth was swept
PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once there were three squirrels, Charlie, Bruce, and Brice
Pumpkin spice was their ultimate vice.
They searched high and low, hoarded every gourd,
Found them at Sprouts Marketplace, “Oh My Lord!”
"This place is a squirrel's paradise!"
One day they discovered Starbucks drive-through
From then on, their autumnal obsession grew and grew
With pumpkin spice lattes galore,
They usually drank at least three or four.
Till one day Brice noticed he no longer wore a size two.
Then he met the barista babe named Imma Lou
“Pumpkin spice lattes, I’m through with you!
But Imma liked his chunky cheeks. “You’re my boo!”
So she hired him and his pals to be on her crew.
Now they are employees of the month. Who knew?!”
The table’s set, the cards are stacked,
Coffee is ready, out come the snacks.
Allana grins, that knowing look—
She’s got Phase 1 like it’s a book.
We start out slow, just laying sets,
But soon the room is full of bets:
“Will she skip me?” “Who's on Phase 3?”
The drama builds deliciously.
A run of four, a colour sweep,
Wild cards hoarded, secrets deep.
“Who shuffled this?” we all accuse,
As Allana drops—Phase 5, no shoes.
She plays with style, she plays with sass,
She’ll drop a Skip and raise her glass.
A card shark No. She’s something more:
The kind of friend worth playing for.
Phase 7 brings some minor feud—
“Reverse again? You’re kinda rude!”
But laughter trumps each petty slight,
And every hand makes hearts feel light.
By Phase 10, the end is near,
Unless she's stuck—then we all cheer.
But win or lose, it’s understood:
With Allana there, it’s always good.
So here’s to nights we won’t forget,
With rules, revenge, and no regret.
Through every deal, you make it fun—
Phase 10’s best with you, Allana.
Scott W.
The roof has borne its share
Of winter's chill, summer's heat,
Of storms and rains,
The wood consumed by termites,
Spiders weaving webs throughout the home.
Ants have claimed the very foundation,
Young rats, in ruinous floods.
The people, they were scorched
By literal fires, or by a hidden agony
Hoarded deep within their hearts.
They became exiles,
Driven by a neighbor's torment,
Or by utter destitution,
Or by the callous neglect of their own kin.
A clever young crow from Belize
Collected old buttons with ease.
It hoarded its stash
In a bucket of trash,
And sold them for shiny gold cheese.
If I have squandered your gifts, O Dear Lord,
and glorified myself with hoarded wealth;
if I have crucified the Lamb and Word,
and planned against my righteous neighbor's health,
then a rebellious son swift to repent
will not corrupt truth, nor forever break
the law or second-highest commandment;
instead, your talents now will all awake
in him and in these written lines of rhyme:
what I am endowed with, I will employ
and with love make the most of my short time,
and on earth spread and multiply Christ's joy.
For whilst some lust for power or live for blood,
I was formed to see my songs lift Death's hood!
It never taught you greed—
you were fluent long before that.
It simply shone,
like sunlight revealing dust
in an empty room.
The hands that took it,
clutched it,
hoarded it,
already understood the language of desire.
And in its brief hold,
you confused its shine
for your own.
When it departed,
what was left
wasn’t broken—
just bare,
just you.
Engels and his comrade Karl Marx
Cite the fight with rich greedy sharks
Tight with hoarded dough!
Their manifesto
Notes the bloat that floats oligarchs
Cannot sense the time
There's no need to report
And nothing's left to find
For the days are now too short
No one did remain
To see the final act
The author went insane
When his Face book page was hacked
Curtains have come down
No encore has been called
No refunds will be found
Since the ticket sales had stalled
Actresses have cried
They're quickly unemployed
No sympathies supplied
For the careers destroyed
Doors have been boarded
The streets are empty now
Old flyers are hoarded
Though not worth much anymore
History will fade
From this old part of the town
Mem'ries been waylaid
Since Broadway had been shut down
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