‘A spark’ or ‘a tiny trace’
Barely more than a hint
The finest sparkling dust mote
The smallest piece of lint
A trace, barely perceptible
Scarcely carries through
An iota, wee, tiny, titchy
Minuscule, bijou
It is, by far, most certainly
The most magical thing I’ve heard
I present to you: ‘Scintilla’
My favourite poetic word
Mount Rushmore -
stone presidents, numbering four;
do you care one iota
for this monument in South Dakota?
multifaceted, love reigns among creative works
proving its worth and wonders midst woes of whys
evidenced by divine love whose source is God
my heart can attest with bliss
as faith testifies
without iota of doubt
love divine prevails
acquitting lamentable condemning emotions
midst freedom of blest sharing and caring bliss
indeed, God's love* imputes no guilt midst clemency's worth
*1 John 4:10 Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
February 19, 2026
6th place, "Voir Dire on Love" Suzette Prime Poetry Writing Premiere Contest
Sponsored by Suzette Richards; judged on 3/2/2026
Bed Time
I should have gone to bed by now, if I'm late
But when the head touches the pillow in the dark bedroom
I think of death
Not fear, but the feeling of helplessness, not an iota
What I have done in my life has made the slightest
Difference, I have not given the world a thing of value.
I remember Liv Ullmann; we were both seventeen
I danced with her, but I could feel I was in the presence of talent
And she became successful; she is someone.
She tells the newspaper in an interview that she hopes to die
In Norway, a rather disappointing utterance when you are
dead, it doesn’t matter where.
She will make the headlines have her obituary written and
There will be sorrow, but in the end, we will both be equally dead.
Bed Time
I should have gone to bed by now, if I'm late
But when the head touches the pillow in the dark bedroom
I think of death
Not fear, but the feeling of helplessness, not an iota
What I have done in my life has made the slightest
Difference, I have not given the world a thing of value.
I remember Liv Ullmann, we were both seventeen
I danced with her, but I could feel I was in the presence of talent
And she became successful; she is someone.
She tells the newspaper in an interview that she hopes to die
In Norway, a rather disappointing utterance when you are
dead, it doesn’t matter where.
She will make the headlines have her obituary written and
There will be sorrow, but in the end, we will both be equally dead.
Those darn ICE agents in Minnesota!
They don't have a clue! Not one iota!
For once, just take some advice:
the U.S. needs to de-ICE
and please drop your deportation quota!
The raging waves of life toss her side to side.
Though she tries to live,
she’s left with only the will to survive.
She can’t say her efforts have been enough,
having shoved hard against the currents,
yet swallowed whole by the deep blue sea.
Still, she is proud of her flailing efforts,
for she fights for her will to live.
She needs more strength.
Anyone, give her an iota of it.
But even the loudest thoughts
cannot be heard.
Bed Time
I should have gone to bed by now; it is late
But when the head touches the pillow in the dark bedroom
I think of death
Not fear, but the feeling of helplessness, not an iota
What I have done in my life has made the slightest
Difference, I have not given the world a thing of value.
I remember Liv Ullman, and we were both seventeen
I danced with her, but I could feel I was in the presence of talent
And she became successful; she is someone.
She tells the newspaper in an interview that she hopes to die
In Norway, a rather disappointing utterance when you are
dead, it doesn’t matter where.
She will make the headlines have her obituary written and
There will be sorrow, but in the end, we will both be equally dead.
O Quintessence!
That which makes us, shapes us,
Through the dirty day
From dust to dust –
Did they know, when they unleashed you, what they wrought?
Stellar eternity condensed in cataclysmic instant,
Iota wreaking death, and smaller blasphemy –
Brief man stealing star-power against the night.
Did he know, when he died the little death, what he was doing?
Not you, for true, but great symbolic father in the garden;
Death brings death, seed seed, life life – the third will last
Then may we live in harmony with you, O fundament.
May we find a link that harms not you nor us.
The wild fruit we may not see again,
And End awaits he who tastes the tamed –
Somewhere in between, then, and let it, like a pomegranate,
Sweet us, bind us to it, that me dwell our time
No less, no more.
They Call themselves friends , but then they deceive you.
Their hearts are merely full of evny and treacherousness.
They plot to exploit you and take advantage.
They are only friends for benefits.
They seek only friends with benfits.
The minute you cannot help or assist them, they leave or elope.
When you can offer them something they tag you the nicest friend.
The minute you are broke or broken you cannot see them of find them.
For you are now no use to them.
They forsake you just so.
They exibit not one iota of loyalty or sincerity or stickability.
they are soo devious it's not funny.
But Remember they are your friends.
Yea yet they are friends. Friends to the end. Only what end?
Yet noty all friends are like that, there are a few true true friends.
Uncondional, consumate, most genuine, not mimic.
Cherish them most kindly and warmly.
At the altar, see
our shadows serving
under the hand
of our Majesty’s Spirit.
In this succinct space,
how does God lean
into us, light up
our souls - with healing,
comfort, ameliorating whys.
His Spirit overshadows us.
Undeserving mankind,
less than an iota of sand,
means much more
than we can fathom
to the weightiness
of the savior’s cause.
God’s face had turned
from sin - to bridge the gap,
a worthy sacrifice;
completing the action,
resurrection after death.
That same Holy Spirit
in operation,
at the altar -
we should be duly in awe,
thankful beyond measure,
drawing closer
to His safe, loving, grace-full arms.
Precious, pretty, fleeting.
Flitting butterfly, lifting
wings, too heavy.
One, two, three…
One, two, three…
the flower’s delighted
to be explored.
Colors, themselves,
adored or unnoticed.
Just that one spot, spotting
the prettiness in the pot;
the stems stand tall;
lantanas, an unsung song.
Silence in the flapping.
How can the breeze accommodate,
provide a zephyr, a zip, a zest,
unrest?
My eyes rest upon loveliness -
this fixed point; is the universe
such things - I could explore
forever, one iota at a time.
Place: Honourable mention
“Oh, my dear mirror!
You show the queerer,
The beautiful and the ugly,
As they are!
Everything on the left
Stays on the left;
Everything on the right
Stays on the right.
What you see, you show,
Neither less nor more!
You’re the best judge,
That we all know!
Even for the sake of fun
Against none,
You never show
An iota of grudge!”
When I ask, if it has anything
to say on the contrary, it humbly says,
“If I’m curved inwardly or outwardly,
I show you the things quite differently!
If I’m broken into many pieces,
A shattered image you get from me!
I’m impartial to the core when I’m flat,
And reflect exactly what is before me!”
You are portrayed altogether differently
By the people with crooked minds!
People with plain minds portray you as you’re!
A great lesson from the mirror, we’ve to learn!!
You said you loved me,
But you still left me,
And you took a piece of me with you,
And I want it back.
I gave you my heart,
But you broke it,
You took a sledgehammer to it,
And left me to pick it up piece by piece.
If you really loved me,
You would’ve accepted me,
If you cared enough,
You’d still smile at me.
Whenever I pass you,
You don’t even look at me,
Your eyes are cold,
And your heart is hardened.
In my hardest time,
You knocked me down,
You left me for dead,
With not one iota of emotion on your face.
From someone I know to someone I knew,
In the blink of an eye,
If you cared enough,
You’d still be here.
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