In a vecranom of situations we think we can get control
But we must have the clearest of sight to receive what we must know
We allow a mundane moment to define our way
But we hastened our desire so that we may one day escape.
Solstice in a Velvet Hush
Written September 10, 2026 for Your Personal Poetry Wheel Challenge
Challenge Dates: September 7, 2026 - September 12, 2026.
Verified by HMS.COM / 8 - 8 - 5 - 5 - 8
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Relationships bloom in the hush,
Where solstice stomps its purple flush.
No anger, no storm,
Just calmness in form,
A feather of love in the crush.
Written September 10, 2026 for Your Personal Poetry Wheel Challenge
Challenge Dates: September 7, 2026 - September 12, 2026.
Verified by HMS.COM / 8 - 8 - 5 - 5 - 8
***************
Relationships bloom in the hush,
Where solstice stomps its purple flush.
No anger, no storm,
Just calmness in form,
A feather of love in the crush.
the baby blackbird sits bewildered
in a teacup trimmed with gold,
soft roses gathered around its small, shaken body.
a silver spoon lies in the leaves,
as if some trembling kindness wandered through
and let a frightened scrap of sky drop into porcelain~
a moment so slight, the world almost forgot
how fragile mercy can be.
No star. No light. No candle burns.
The heart, once warm, is cold and still.
To rock, to lifeless stone it turns —
A tomb, shut fast, in night as chill.
And in that tomb, so cold, so bare,
Lies Love made flesh, and crucified.
No breath. No voice. No answer there.
The world stood dark the hour He died.
Then Joseph came, a secret friend,
And begged the Body, cold as clay;
He wrapped his Lord, and knelt to tend
The wounds, in grief and in dismay.
There Christ lay on the stone, alone
His journey through the world was done;
No warmth was left in flesh or bone;
The earth cried out beneath the sun.
No grief had ever pierced so sore,
No heart had ever bowed its head —
The dark that day was dark far more
Than any dark before the dead.
Yet lower still His spirit came,
Down to the deep, where dead men lay,
And broke the bonds of ancient shame
That held our father, bound for aye.
Far in the east, a light was born —
Not warm, not gold, but cold and thin;
No man yet knew, that fearful morn,
If Life could ever wake within.
Hanging almost angelically.
Praying for a breeze at the perfect pace.
Too soft, and it risks being exposed for being too fragile.
Too hard, and it risks being labelled too harsh and too cold.
The wind chime is singing so softly today.
It has mastered the art of veiling grief.
A bird on the blue bush tilting a beak is listening closely.
A brief reprieve from its nest of ever-hungry beaks.
Here comes that hurricane again, tangling the wood and strings.
Whisking sanity away. Strays gather in clusters of desperation,
Where children are told not to play, they rarely listen.
Then comes that prolonged lull.
Jagged thoughts gather themselves in spectacular futility.
The stillness is framed in a rugged mud,
An endless procession of pallbearers' deep gray.
Cherubs are trained to wade into hopelessness,
At the risk of getting graffitied. They always listen.
Then bumble home with wings sprayed in blood and a harsh lesson.
Yesterday everybody quietly slipped away.
Searching for a fresh melody of optimism.
Nobody fancies being swallowed up by the gray.
Nothing is salvaged from a wind chime after a hurricane
I'll give you an idea of what I'm thinking
let you into my darkest room
I'll hold your hand just to comfort
peel your eyes you'll see soon
in the silence of the night
sitting all on my own
I offer myself help
and try lighten the gloom
Talking to myself
stacking thoughts on a shelf
in a darkened room
only light is my screen
in a darkened room
I 'm allowed to dream
In my mind I'm a superstar
been around the world
In my mind I'm superior
my flag has been unfurled
my dreams are ghosts in the dark
and they are haunting me
I'm still building a Noah's ark
and filling with my fantasies
Nothing outside these four walls
in my tiny prison cell
the world doesn't exist, thank god
so glad I'm on my own
In my darkened room
Atmosphere and emotion.
Smoke, confusion.
Lose themselves, in mad-sent ways
Once trapped therein.
Sensibilities, pure-eyed
Shockably wide
Dull. And o'erexposed, contract;
To a cynic's grin.
One in a million
Carried the weight of responsibility
One in a million
Devoted his life of morals
One in a million
Embraced her soul of sorrow
One in a million
Finished the game of vulnerability
Could never live in a city,
nothing about it feels right,
so cramped, crowded, and quite dirty,
hard angles always in sight.
The stress I see in the faces,
pricey closets for a home,
everything near someone else’s,
no land they can call their own.
Moving like rats in a subway,
nothing but concrete to walk,
all this to live where ‘things happen,’
at least that’s how many talk.
So few of them will have children,
the cost most just can’t afford,
and most went there for the fast life,
gives nothing but demands more.
The morals always declining,
any in they’ll tolerate,
cling to it amidst the chaos,
and die still claiming it’s great.
The crimes of degraded people,
city hall doing nothing,
don’t care to arrest criminals
when they need them all voting.
It hollows out the whole city,
great buildings rotting away,
the people not getting better,
the whole place endlessly fades.
And yet they say we should live there,
believe they top all the rest,
better than all of those ‘rednecks,’
see other folk as much less.
No, I can’t live in a city,
the whole place is insane,
no job, museum, or night club
can be worth that kind of pain.
Through all the noise and The Wandering Mind,
I searched for a grace I was meant to find.
They talk about the Many Faces of Love,
Though we’ve been Judged Differently by stars above.
I still smile thinking how SHE ASKED FOR MY BLAZER,
Wrapped in my jacket, feeling you near.
I Love Doing This Life Thing with You,
Catching The Look i Don't Notice, so quiet and true.
When Love Calls Me Sweetboy, my world turns soft,
My Silver Lining when my thoughts float aloft.
You brought me a Clarity nothing can break,
Pure Perfection in Motion in every breath you take.
Even when apart, Still Longing to hold,
In the Dawn's Gentle Light, our story is told.
One look and I sigh, Damn, Its Her,
My light, my favorite blur.
My Desire and my Wish is simple, to stay by your side,
I give you My Words, nowhere to hide.
We’re leaving behind the Shadows of Youth,
Because For Me, You Are Enough and that is my truth.
At the end of it all, It's You
To yield is to merge.
For merging require the act of yielding.
Then in the lanes of speeds.
Part of the right lane worlds.
If you going form right to left.
If you are going from left to right.
For the duty of the right is to merge.
For the duty of the left is to yield.
Therefore merging is also yielding.
To avoid said collisions.
So in which lane are you driving in?
From what was once the friendly face of night
now peers from all around on earthly soil
to rush among the shadows in delight
'til fear within the waining moonlight boils ~
and hidden in the darkness, waits to scream,
perhaps for freedom from this hopeless world,
or wake, and know it's only been a dream
in which our sanity is tightly furled.
For one who fears the moon's another spy
which creeps between the stars to steal the dark,
there is no peace when everything's a lie,
nor safety in a soul that swims with sharks.
Instead we're eaten by our own mistrust
and lost within the darkness where we're crushed...
The enemy knows the power of a hook.
One verse repeated got your whole world shook.
Because your ears are the gateway to an unseen realm.
Lead in a pencil becoming the ink from a well.
Escape room within the confines of a mind bass ackwards.
Sea horse in a bubble, Jessica Rabbit past her prime.
Thoughts cruising down dead end streets and round abouts for no apparent reason or rhyme.
Letting it flow in the changing of seasons.
I've sat within darkness, led by light back to freedom.
Brain set ablaze, while stumbling within a self made maze.
Thankful to the Lord my God, after how far I strayed.
Restored a mind which had become lost in the hallways of insanity. The mind itself had made.
Writing to find the keys of the rooms I've still no access.
Lead leading the process of imagination on paper.
I found 'em on the floor one night:
discarded socks no longer white
(the guy had diarrhoea, that's clear -
no paper left to wipe his rear -
and took the socks right off his feet...)
I guess he'd used the final sheet
of paper on the roll. He whined,
I bet! Then left his socks behind!
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