“Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever.” ~ The final sentence of The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings.
A child was gone forever…
Was I, too, once a child?
Would it be that never,
I’d again run free and wild?
Would I simply pass away
like little Fodder-wing,
not to see another day
where I might fly or sing?
Lately, I’ve been thinking of
a brand-new hopeful dawn,
and the feel of earnest love -
of Jody and his fawn.
I saw a waterwheel, saw a rabbit,
took more than just a look.
Another’s soul, I’d inhabit
in the chapters of a book.
Lost forever to the ages,
a long, forgotten “when” -
four hundred thirty pages
gave me childhood again.
Written: July 22, 2026 for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
************
We sit at this emporium
on the outskirts of the oasis;
I watch you
while your eyes inhabit the moon.
Tell me—what forgotten tide
is tugging at your silence?
mine,
or the phantom
wearing your heartbeat,
as cedar smoke cleaves to your coat?
The night offers
no reply.
Every moonrise
it buttons brief memories, tight as cold stone,
as dew phosphoresces on iron rails
meanwhile,
your discarded book drinks darkness...
Only the window holds our
two reflections, never touching.
So—
I am living on your borrowed light,
gathering myself from evanishing warmth
your gaze forgets to retain—
silver by sepulchral slate piece,
salt whitening the shoreline.
I become a constellation
linking stars and tears,
luminous enough to guide the lost.
Yet still, the silver rim
of your cup remains.
It proves even borrowed moons
leave tides behind,
washing over the stagnant coffee left between us.
Haunted by your gasps come eventide
the shimmer of vour shirt climbs
and rugged flesh of your torso
Traces those hips
as I fondle the crease from your spine
... to fine mold Brach's melody,
its mellow refrains accompanying
spatter of viscous honey ;
In a voice of sizzling quiet
that makes your arms part my sea ,
I inhabit wedded bliss in the mists of your eyes
and night's starglow melts before me:
This fragrance of total surrender
leads me to one , undefined moment
while I blossom delicately---
until we tremble as one
my nectar overflowing.
technology, specifically AI
forges ahead at the speed of light
those who would pause it
inhabit chambers of pitch-black night
This came to me on a Sunday night
when in the past, there’d been a fight
the house sat empty and sick with silence
and I was reeling, struck from violence
But now I feel things so different
in whirls and waves of the most blurred vision
sometimes I pace
sometimes I chase
feelings of warmth, safety and pain
or perhaps a journey to the not yet seen
in golden gleams of what could be
where I’m held close, never to seem
lost in life, lost at sea
peace I inhabit on Sunday nights
now fills a void that was full of fright
I no longer dread making it through the night
keep me here, I’ll be alright
Thunder speaks in riddles
I was never meant to solve.
Maybe silence
is the only language
I was trusted with.
Birds circle overhead
with jeweled arrogance,
their laughter sharp enough
to cut the sky.
I can’t tell if they mock me
or mourn me,
but their wings sound
like pages turning—
as if my story
is already written
and they’re skimming
the last chapter.
I’ve run the race from all my haste
with lungs full of gravel,
asked forgiveness
from shadows that never answered,
left pieces of myself
in places no one visits.
And still the world
refuses to shift,
refuses to notice
the quiet collapse
behind my ribs.
This body—
five feet ten inches
of locked doors
and flickering lights—
feels less like a home
and more like a cave
I was sentenced to inhabit.
Yet the wind keeps pushing.
The birds keep laughing.
The grass keeps falling
at my feet.
Somewhere in all that darkness
is a truth I haven’t touched yet—
a shape moving just beyond
what I’m willing to see.
Watching for thrushes that grow moist
from dusky soil, my heels trek along
deepened clay. As I lay on the porch listening
to tress rustling, inky moon sinks its riddled face
through veil of midnight. Somehow, I feel restless...
abandoned like jagged refrains of this heart
which seems to fall into an unsettling interlude
of time. Yes, this golden chapter drifts,
as a baptism of new beginnings swells.
on this barren field…
a solitary twig cracks
from one glittered tree
The nightfall drools looking for the yellow
among clouds. For a while, the hazy outlines
of strangers--native women and children ---
disturb my revelries of younger moments
lingering through the dipping sway from moonglow.
Through calm intervals of laughter, I sway
with mid life's flow; fire to air, salt to honey.
Much as I need to inhabit youth's space,
it no longer belongs to me.
But twilight comes brimming with all
the glistened jewels of my own half- time of a world.
between two lifetimes
is a haunting melody…
like an unsung note
The morning breaks with golden, quiet light,
And casts away the shadows of the mind.
No heavy burdens clutter up the sight,
Just simple truths that anyone can find.
A gentle breeze that whispers through the trees,
A cup of tea beside the open door,
The soul finds comfort in a summer breeze,
And asks for nothing it has known before.
The grandest crowns are made of heavy gold,
While quiet grace is light enough to wear.
The simplest tales are beautiful when told,
Nothing, more or less than the truth to share.
In little things, the peace of life is found,
Where love and calm inhabit common ground.
Yes, the light does not arrive
it accumulates,
Yes, not a switch but a gradient,
not a moment but an hour,
Yes, darkness and light argue slowly,
neither winning cleanly,
Yes, and the world is briefly,
beautifully, neither.
Yes, at four the darkness is still absolute and entire,
Yes, yet the birds open their throats and sing anyway,
Yes, not because they see the light but because they trust the turn,
Yes, you do not need the dawn before you begin.
Yes, by five the sky tries blue against the black,
Yes, a ghost-colour, a suggestion, a possibility rehearsed,
Yes, night and day inhabit the same sky without confusion
Yes, this is not contradiction, this is honesty.
Yes, by six the mist catches light differently than the hills do,
Yes, a tree steps forward, then the field, then the far ridge,
Yes, each thing returning to its name, its shape, its place,
Yes, having come through the dark without losing what it was.
Yes, this is the joy: the long accumulated yes,
Yes, light choosing the world, detail by deliberate detail,
Yes, the birds already knew and now, so do you
Yes, go through, go through, the light is always coming.
Dignity and decorum
Belong to those without need
Separating and sucking
As they pillage and feed
...the lowly
In the high court of royalty
Permission must be given
For dogs to be seen and heard
As cockroaches among the livin'
....saints
How dare slaves demand
The right to breath the same air
As those who have "right to rule"
On a planet that isn't theirs
...to inhabit
A mouth full of words
Is good for thought
The universe has spoken
And given what you got
...eat!
Written by Trudy Schrader on 03-30-2026
What makes us human?
The air we breathe?
The body we inhabit our soul in?
The knowledge that we are here and alive?
Yes but what makes us really human?
The way our heart beats
When another soul touches our skin
The emotions that arise
When we get to experience
A pretty sunset or sunrise
The chilling air
That we breathe into our lungs
On those cold winter nights
And the moments that filter your mind
Just as you close your eyes
The answer to the question?
The beautiful, enchanting
Emotions, thoughts and feelings
That we are lucky to experience
Every minute of every single day
For the rest of our lives
Because the way we feel never dies
And yes bodies may age
And yes knowledge may grow distant
But the love felt in our life
That is something else
That will never die
My mom’s favorite flower
And when I catch the wafting shower
And imbibe the smell of them
My thoughts of Mom start up again
While she rests under a lilac bush
She has visions of a Monet
And her thoughts and the moths
Inhabit the lilac in a romantic foray
It’s more of an adorning (as with a crown)
This purple fountain of pageantry
I’m putting them on a pedestal
But please don’t think any less of me
She loves them so, this is how lilac’s trundle
Outside a trellis, inside, in water, in bundle
But as soon as these beauties had renown
They die slowly and turn to brown
But it’s the memories
That keep me coming back
I will think of my Mom often
Every time I smell a lilac
Tomorrow is a rumor, far off, distant.
Yesterday is a dream you'd rather forget.
Be here, right now, with nothing to be missed.
The clock ticks; it's tocks won't wait, so inhabit it.
Be there inside the neck of the hourglass,
to feel the sand grains slide through your fingers.
Not as a bystander, watching time fade away,
but as a soul willing to stand in the rain,
feeling each unrepeatable plink gather
into rivulets of contemplation,
streaming to glisten as tears down your face.
You must inhabit a piece of art
really roll it upon your tongue
every detail, please tear it apart
you truly cannot go wrong
on a tray rearrange life's fabric
feel free to rip, fold and scrunch
by the end it feels quite a neat trick
a delightful mouthful just before lunch
check out colour, line and angle
scratch at it with a fingernail
abstraction becomes revealing tangle
poetic flow a cosmic sail
decorate freely with garnish
intersperse spice and oil
don't worry about being outlandish
(and best results appear when on the boil)
do make sure it's all organic
it's an essential part of the meal
diners should ideally their lips lick
salivating about all that they'll feel
#1 placement
So much of what we do – what we are – is atavistic. We remember, deep in the hippocampus, when we were as free (and as vulnerable) as horses in the field. Predators we, we are also prey, and we can’t forget it. We still inhabit Cape Fear. That’s why we cheer. Gregory Peck tires of being The Hunted and becomes The Hunter.
fastidiously
on fragile stilts of frail cane
stealthy crane stands poised
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