The proud lad's dad dressed in plaid.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
To those who sit, anonymously making choices,
behind the soupy site
My gratitude, feel honoured to be chosen best new poet for two weeks and also POTD,
inspired, so more poems I will write
At age seventy seven, told that I am old, my reply, "if I think that way I will be"
some are taken aback
This honour bestowed upon me, I now know, gotta long way to go,
before I regard myself, as an uninspired hack
A mother's love for fledgling
pride and honour to her depth's core
~ larger-than-life future about to unfold
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2025
Perchance blank sheets had choice,
they’d refuse the stain of ink.
Yet ink delights in spoiling emptiness,
like palm-oil staining white cloth.
That defiance—
to create and keep records,
to write poems for posterity—
perhaps, or perhaps not,
like smoke beneath a cover,
escaping what time cannot cage.
Sometimes poems sing into thin air,
with no eardrum to soothe.
Other times they endure the test of time,
speaking as soliloquy to the unborn,
through wisdom and well-chosen words—
like echoes billowing through valleys.
Few then recall the ink
that shaped such classics,
long dried and discarded,
like footprints blurred by rain.
It is the paper that blows the kisses,
absorbs the tears,
and wears the credits given.
So paper may delight,
while ink grows dispirited.
For obscurity never veils real visions—
a passing cloud misguides the senses
from knowing who holds true honour.
So paper may rejoice,
and ink fall into silence.
Yet vision does not drown in shadows—
like sunlight veiled by dust,
truth will still gleam through,
to honour ink that turns blankness to beauty.
Twitter now has changed in name, life ever
Altering though ages the same.' On my once
Active account, i had a great surprise.! The
Former King Salman appreciated, the writes
That through me God put out..I never forget
The honour I felt, with Him being from the
'muslim belt'
Raggedy Army
As morning bathes in spring sunshine
A raggedy army stands in line.
Unkempt and ragtag, oddly sized,
Unarranged, disorganised.
Red, a splash among the grey
A new parade at dawn each day.
Some heads drooping, some held high,
A handful gazing at the sky.
Fresh and bright to start the morning,
Most won’t see a new day’s dawning.
In summer’s heat, the same routine -
A new head where an old had been.
In autumn’s fading dying light
A hardy few keep up the fight.
But then to hide in winter’s snow,
Till spring’s warmth says it’s time to show.
And bursting forth and standing proud,
Though scattered, battered, thrashed and ploughed
The raggedy army stands again
Eternal homage to fallen men.
You will know your dad
when you too became a dad!
You shall feel glad
when you realize, he was your launch pad!
You will appreciate his wisdom
when you shoulder responsibilities of the kingdom!
You will realize his care
when he was dissolved into the air!
You will dearly miss him
when alone, against the tides of life, you swim!
You shall honour his glory
when you will appreciate his story!
You shall praise, he is the prize
while he is alive and if you are wise!
Dedicated to all Fathers on this International Father's Day (third Sunday of June)!
Quyeer times emit blazing signs..And some ex-boy friends?
Is this karma divine? mi5 say its Putin..' a prime topic for
Them...And its taken a fortnight with henceforth..No why
Where or whens..From them.' Yet it seems rather sloppy to
Be (a Russian affair?) And arson too primitive.' I think thats
Quite fair.? Just an ass-umption.' To try to open the door.'
Of secrecy thats been holding karmas secret deposits oh
Dear..I guessed such was er?? Coming..Hmm?? I wrote a
Poem before.!! Now its been shat-tered all over the world
And whats more.' Theres an outcome to happen.' Once the
Lube is applied.' As it was maybe in the beginning.?? Or
Will this turn upon lies? Maybe death? Well of the
Truth.' Will be the out-come? Lets await the putrid offerings
Of ( some media bums.?)
"At my bitter wits' end,"
was her mutter.
"Both of them?"
facetiously, I did utter.
"I'm beside myself,"
emotionally, she cried.
"A split personality,"
jokingly, I replied.
"No, I am but one,
and all tangled up I've become,"
instantly, her rebuff.
"At a loose end then?"
I questioned, off the cuff.
"Tied up in knots, more like it,"
in distress, her response.
"Prepared, like a Boy Scout, I'll be your undoing,"
I observed, feigning nonchalance,
"Give the word, and then, who knows,"
hopeful, I had half a chance,
she heard me suggestively propose.
Angela and Angelica,
I'm not a silica,
I'm not Amelia,
I'm more like hydrilla,
Moving with the water current,
I love my husband,
He is my fashion idol,
Is there too much to ask,
No, I rather be with him from dawn to dusk,
He is the boy I admire,
He is not what I desire,
But on what I require,
He is on the Esquire,
A requited love is what I desire.
There was a hunter,
who lived for game.
His mind was strong,
but thoughts were lame.
He met a deer,
who changed his life.
She stabbed his heart,
with a hunting knife.
The mighty hunter,
became the prey.
He lost his heart,
in a game he played.
He never thought,
the day would come.
For a mighty hunter,
to be a bum.
To those who hunt,
and do the same.
A deers feelings,
are not a game.
An honest man,
should be sincere.
A deers heart,
to him is dear.
You are selfish to the core
It is about you and nothing more
She loved you untold
From her heart of precious gold
She gave and you snatched
For you there was no looking back
It was me who eased her pain
Time and time again
She loved you wholeheartedly
Only in death was her disappointment freed
That filled my being with sorrow
As now there is no tomorrow
Sadly, I am indifferent to you l resign
I do not honour you in this lifetime
When you take your last breath
I will not honour you in death
Love alone must heal our wounds
but when honour is at stake
can we lie down and play dead,
yet hold head erect?
(Poem in honour of the ancient Christian named "Alexamenos" who was mocked with Christ and named in the "Alexamenos graffito" in Rome)
A man who looked up high towards the blood-soaked cross of earthly strife
Lovingly devout to Christ, Christ who became the tree of knowledge and life
Even though he was mocked as a donkey, you saw his white raiment
Xtian who bowed to the lamb who rode on a donkey in a king’s garment
A man who lives with the living, who has died to the dead here present
May blessings be upon you who was reviled and in much torment
Even the lamb was hated, though without him no one could see the divinity
Now your name and devotion are set in stone for eternity
Overturning the mockery crafted to be a thorn crown of blight
Strong in the shouts of mockery, you took up your own cross of plight
Verdant hills stretch before you
The giant Peveril of time reaches up from its monstrous past
Of broken earth and volcanic blast
Surveying all below
That glint and gleam in their trillion shades of green that crawl softly
Silently with a living claw.
Life abundant all around
Knowing songs of air and land with shadow and shaft moving over
As a stroking hand
There at rest in all that glorious age
Majesty stands alone this watching waiting sage.
Your keep lies fast in rich domain
For eternity and with the same eyes watch the cast and silver strike
Of all foreign lands with like
Protecting worn live you still
The mighty sleeping Peveril.
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