The ever-cherishing...
View of the panoramic blue hills
The melodious tone of a Thrush
A glimpse of a distant horizon
The sight of clouds kissing the sky.
The Panache of...
Lovers weaving the dream web
The demanding depths of a mountain-pass
The luxuriant foliage
The sparkly stars in the pitch-black skies
The sharpest gaze at the infinite.
It is a desire...
To descend the hours of hardship
To sightsee a palmy garden
To feel the caressing north wind afar
To recreate the defunct fauna and flora
To sense the aroma of Bethlehem Lily.
Must care take ...
The emotions swinging in the sky canoe.
To mouth shut the gamut of harsh words
To augment the woe of parted love
To fill the voids with the right choice and
To put off rage, a forest fire in action!
Exquisite is...
The unheard song from the unknown
The illusion is craving for an Oasis.
The reality, time plunging into an hourglass
Afar, a new beginning undoes.
The sunrise, twilight and nightfall, the viewers!
Nobody ever talks about him.
He rules quietly in a matriarchal society.
He can easily be replaced.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
an octopus inks
through neural currents—
that gap between synapses
holds the ocean's depth
no illusions dissolved
silence stretches
till the Ego snaps~
its craving a rusted trap
gnawed clean by tides
abandoned on sand
Do haloes dust the past?
Pleasing words act as magic,
a trick never revealed.
Ears attach to harmonics
detach on discord —
no matter what song is sung.
A Siren’s song sprays its Archaic perfume.
An alluring tune underscores
the harbinger of doom.
Tied to a singer — not to the mast.
Sailing the song, sung in siren tones,
To a harboured past.
Our auto-tuned ears need perfect pitch,
minstrels sing their way into towns.
A song of Despondency, gilded in pleasure.
Boarded-up chanties of main streets still
ring in the hollows of impoverishment.
A popular melody of despair.
If it is you, what would you do?
Strip the nightingale from its suit or
come to it playing your Hamelin flute?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Line of inquiry: Betwixt two thoughts there is a gap. No illusions therein entrap. In the time stretched pause we then see Ego craving is a mousetrap.
crack in the teacup where steam hesitates.
the old scholar traces inkblots
on rice paper, saying watch the gap.
not emptiness, but space humming with moths
that taste thought-dust before wings unfold.
no trap snaps here—only hunger suspended
like a spider’s thread above wet grass.
ego starves in that pause, whiskers twitching
at the cheese-less dark.
only stillness answers.
Illusion
This inferno of passion
This wildly blazing
Flame everlasting
Unconditional love
Catches fire burns up
The space around
Two actors stay on stage
Just me and you
And the world
Is rotting to the ground
All bridges whipped out
By red- hot firestorm
And all chains broken
While handcuffed forever
In the silence of us
In the prison of
Our melted hearts
United in unyielding fortress
It’s arbitrarily forbidden
But it’s real lust
Voluntarily imprisoned
In wanting more love
Her every thought and act
Lining in parchment of doubt and fear
Giftwrapped in glitter and illusion
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Was it all just a dream?
I meet myself, time and again,
in a thousand disguises,
on this solitary path of life.
My mind whispers,
“The walls will never echo joy again.”
The illusion of what could have been
breaks me.
Guilt clings to me,
a straight jacket of failures,
my shadow self, fearful of the light,
hiding behind my shattered heart.
My thirsty soul drinks doubt
from a broken goblet,
each sip a reflection of despair.
Thoughts race like shadows
chaotic noise, relentless and loud.
How long until memories
stop tasting like pain?
What can keep me standing,
when loss echoes in every breath?
I meet myself, time and again,
in these tattered disguises,
searching for a glimmer,
a reason to rise.
the birds don't
break on panes of sky—
they break on the
illusion of passage
the threshold of the unseen
on thinking
glass is sky
on faith
that what seems
open is
***
does heaven
kill by being there
or seeming to be?
transparency is
also trap
the open is what kills them
This is the progressive era
And so we’ve all been steeped
In the ideal of progress
As an inherent good,
An end in itself,
But for a life
Spinning on the hamster’s wheel
All progress is illusion.
(11/8/25)
The man in the elevator broke my heart
When he told me his story from the start.
A story of loss, sending chills down my spine,
Still I didn’t complain and I didn’t whine.
His tale brought me to my knees, so chilling
It felt like his whole heart he’d been spilling
His wife had left him for another, his brother
The second son of his dear, beloved mother
What he discovered, when she left him for good
Was that his heart and soul was misunderstood
The man in the elevator, I came to the conclusion
Was just a bit confused, living a fantastical illusion!
When they cried for touches,
When she loved mocking the noises,
When he acted like he didn't care,
He made a false claim with an extravagant dare...
Time is too precious to waste.
The setting is perfect for achieving nothing but salvation.
"Time is nothing but an illusion," he says!
And counsels her on how to get her to flee,
As all things have parted ways.
The guy is so blessed with opportunities.
The guy doesn't care about anything but the girl's salvation.
Sometimes it's too hard to hold someone,
And sometimes, the rescue turns into a blessing!
The storms don't care about the man or the woman,
They often visit their possessions,
But they never wanted the storms,
Yet that causes redemption...
Freedom brings illusions along with liberties,
And nothing is freer than a bird without a cage,
Who wants to be caged by her true intent!
Here we are
Each of us
In a world
Of our own
Trying hard
To connect
But failing
Again and again.
The solution
You know
Is to simply
Let it all
Go
And let
whatever arises
Simply be.
Is this illusion
The Zenness
Of being
Or it is just
Another attempt
At relevance
In a world
Of illusion.
(10/15/25)
Can you not be what you made me to see?
My siren song of woven poesy—
Sealing my choice on your brand with a roar—
Am I right, or have you blinded my core?
You are my mountains, my rivers, my hills.
Why, then, indictment after your cheap thrills?
Honeyed lips lie behind lipstick and paint;
My verdure, my air, my people you taint.
Your essence of playful epiphanies,
Perfect, filtered, adjusted sanctities,
Are the dreads of death in the heart of hearths—
A cavernous gloom of illusive arts.
And upon that stand, blow the Judas Kiss:
If repentance fails, who would be your tryst?
Immersed in shards of fallen glass,
luminous it contaminates the floor.
Loudly art displays what happened
using a mosaic as a loud memorial.
Stay overnight if you dare to,
intricate puzzles may swallow you.
Or is it just a trick of the eyes
nestled in the bones of this house?
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