An envelope rests on the windowsill,
its flap slightly lifted
as though a breath passed through it.
Inside, a small drift of cloud~
soft, unsettled,
holding the shape of whatever message
has not yet been read.
Outside, the sky carries
the same quiet weather:
clouds moving with deliberate calm,
as if they know
their likeness has been folded
and left waiting.
I do not open the envelope.
Some messages arrive
only when the heart is still enough
to hear them.
So I let it rest~
a pale reminder
that heaven speaks
in small, unhurried ways.
By evening, the cloud inside
has thinned to a faint whisper,
yet the window remains bright,
as though the sky
has leaned close
to finish what it meant to say.
It is love that persists,
love that refuses the dark,
love that remembers itself
even when we cannot.
Nette Onclaud
Light a Pensee
07/28/2026
Wax core
bleeding its heart
feeding flame with its own flesh
inside a cold, ungrateful room
slain, so the dark stays warm.
what is truth~
when every voice sounds the same
who remembers truth
The sun awakens me in May
unlike in January
when it sleeps so long
the morn’s nearly gone
And when it does awaken
it takes its sweet time
fancies itself a prince or a king
~ the day long since taken wing
witch’s brew took over the stirring herself
using a much larger spoon she found on a shelf
the witch was astounded, and backed up to the wall
a cat clock was so tickled, she laughed and had a fall
The newts and the frogs jumped into the brew
Tasty! Yelled an ignorant one. He thought it was stew
In a way I am, the brew said with a smirk and a smile.
A delicious poison for an elf who had done a misdial.
life is but a tangle
and it matters...
that reality is 'knot'
rather than a 'matt-tear'
len
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, it was only hydrogen
humming in the dark~
a single note stretched thin
across the ribs of nothing.
Then the stars learned to count,
their bright fingers tallying
the arithmetic of light.
Galaxies folded into themselves,
remembering.
Now the void whispers equations
to any ear pressed close enough~
the gravity between thoughts,
the slow calculus of dust
forming hands and eyes
the unbearable weight
of a mind vast enough
to ask:
Am I alone?
And somewhere,
a pulse echoes back:
No.
Daughters see mothers die
Bees swarm to stay alive
New stars shine in the sky
Wolves howl at a full moon
Heartstrings from baby's cries
Flowers bloom in street cracks
A blind boy plays piano
Cars swerve to miss ducklings
Vultures claim raw roadkill
Forests regrow from fires
Some seeds can wait decades
Hence poems may make some sense
Football’s not a game, it’s a weekend war
Baseball’s a battle a day, myriad games played
Business is cutthroat competition
‘Dog-eat-dog’ ~ every man for himself
Hollywood and hospitals: grapevines
like lightning, with stab-in the backers
Computer systems assaulted by malware and hackers
No easy answers to a world at war
No one questioning what life is for
Tragic beginnings.
Desensitized children.
Solemness remains.
I dreamt the stars could whisper truth,
That mass itself could hum the tune —
A hidden fire beneath sunset and cloth
Of time’s eternal afternoon.
Energy, the soul of form,
Mass, the anchor bound in space—
Each mirrored in the other’s storm,
Each wearing the other’s face.
From sunlight’s kiss to atom’s core,
From gentle spark to blinding flare,
The universe began to roar—
A single law, both vast and far.
So simple—yet it holds the key,
To birth and death, to light and sea,
In every mote the cosmos shared,
The quiet truth: E = mc²
They ask what I long for, and in my silence, the answer weaves itself,
I want to calm the restless hair framing her face like a story.
I want to capture her falling tears in the vault of my deep eyes,
To abandon her pain in a nameless alley where memories dare not reach.
I want to gather the lonely roads of her heart and bring them only to me,
To shelter her smile in the most hidden, divine corners of my soul.
To carry her smile as a secret treasure in the depths of my being,
To be her refuge and solace in the magic of starry and cold nights.
I want to protect her from the world's shadows, for my arms to be her home,
To gift her the tranquility and peace that only love can paint in life.
To soothe her soul weary from searching and bring her eternity as a gift,
For us to be, the two of us, a universe of dreams, an esoteric and rare magic truth.
The night unfolds like ink in water—
a cascade of darkness over the hills,
dripping slowly from the corners of the sky.
Above, a nebula pulses,
not with light,
but with memory—
a soft, aching breath of color
too distant to touch,
too alive to ignore.
The river winds in serpentine motions,
its skin moonlit,
its voice a lilt against the rocks.
In the reeds, something stirs—
the subtle slither of what does not wish to be known,
but cannot help being seen.
A myriad insects chant the language
of things that were never written down.
The moon—
that cold, familiar lunar sentinel—
hangs overhead like an old regret,
casting a pale, indifferent eye
over the ruins of our intentions.
Even the stones are glowing now,
faint and phosphorous,
as if remembering the sun
in the hush before dawn.
And somewhere—
somewhere beyond this moment—
the sky forgets itself,
and begins again.
And the way I love is a sin in itself, a dance of shadows,
but who will stop me? I have committed no injustice, no theft of light.
Sinners sin, just as the sun pours warmth over the earth,
it is not a choice, but a thread in the fabric of nature, a melody that echoes endlessly.
Illusion? Please, I am the supreme illusion, the paradox walking, dressed in truth,
dragging shadows through the light, leaving traces of dreams in the dense air.
I kiss with lips soaked in sweet poison, yet my heart bleeds purity,
I am not made to be tamed, nor meant to be healed by the art of silence.
They pray for my silence, but I roar in metaphors, a hymn of the damned,
with petals for scars, a garden of words that blooms in the dark.
And the sinner? Again in agony, because I dared to sin, to breathe.
But who will tell them the truth buried deep within me?
That I am the one who is not the curse, but the wound, not the blade, but the blood that blooms.
And I will also be the victim, bearing the burden of my own truth,
a soul struggling between light and shadow, between love and loss.
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