The silent letters were not happy.
They wanted someone to notice what they did.
The k from knife walked in first,
but his arrival slipped past their eyes.
The w from write brought a pen.
The g from gnome brought tea.
The b from doubt raised his hand and asked - “Does anybody notice me?”
They shared their little troubles,
and joked about being ignored.
They lived inside familiar words,
but stayed quiet all along.
Then an oxymoron walked in
with a strange expression of his own.
“I’m an honest liar,” he said,
“I’ve been this way awhile.”
“I’m a pretty ugly genius
they told me so.
I’m seriously funny,
with my own confusing style.”
The letters shared a silent joke.
The visitor laughed along.
It was a gathering with no noise at all,
where the quiet letters finally got noticed.
Silent Letters and Oxymorons
Contest Judged: 9/2/2026 12:00:00 AM
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
(1st Place)
_Scene: After the fight_
His snore filled the room now,
Like air inside a balloon.
Thoughts run like sprinters in her mind.
Steady. Distant. A retreat.
Sonia stood. Always standing.
Her eyes locked on the door.
Not wood. Not paint.
An exit.
The course was set,
Like the stubborn August breeze.
Purpose sharpened in her chest.
The bulb still buzzed.
The night was almost over.
For two who once joked they were lovers.
She breathed. She was ready.
“Don’t call me mad,” she screamed.
Hand raised in reaction to her words.
But she planted her feet, like cocoa tree.
“Raise it again. Bear the cost.”
“Wives stab husbands now,” he joked, afraid.
“You'll join your matrimonial abuse colleagues in jail,
Or you think women aren't welcome there?”
He wanted her gone.
New woman to be welcomed at the door.
She wanted independence from a man
Who bragged about his nothingness.
“Your rickety car will fail you.
You’re already down like a crashed plane,” said she.
One bulb. Two shadows.
Marriage died by midnight.
How selfish of me, to welcome the loss of his life
As long as it brought his cat into mine.
There she was for a couple of months, a soft, silent sound
Rarely seen, never made a noise, but she was always around.
Yet soon, she weaseled her way into the rest of our home,
Found herself, and used our hearts as her thrones.
In time, that lazy cat, who had never made a sound
Became a loud siren that started running around.
She had lived in the basement for most of her life
She never knew love, just how to survive.
Until she was treasured, and smothered in love.
And somehow, that old cat became one of us.
Until eventually, it was clear she was there to stay
So after four years, I stopped cherishing her every day.
We always joked we were just waiting for her to die.
The kind of jokes that I made on that Tuesday night.
But on Wednesday morning, my loud cat lost her voice
And in an instant, we all prayed for the noise.
But it was quiet, so quiet, she couldn’t lift her head.
And by the time I came downstairs, that quiet cat was dead.
They researched things to help the struggling folk here.
Now was the opportunity to capture the attention of those who refused to believe in opportunity.
Colation terms and words were borrowed from rivaling industries.
There new definition could outline the need for monatery growth through investments. One joked about investing in a alternatorbfor his car, but that joke outlined everything we hated about poverty.
Adjusting and reading for a fall wasn't submissive it only narrated the outcome without educating against the differences and same ess of these words.
Most were frustrated when the folk refused to understand the offering.
A small investment to create accounts for fast growth, using many people to offset the long. Wait.Months not years said. The presenter.
I don't need to lay hands on the sick to ease suffering. We only need to educate might the minds see and believe in the opportunity.
I woke up ready to kick butt
Despite my case of bubble guts
Anesthesia my sensitive system affected
But next to me attention was directed
A woman who was in excruciating pain
Laughed at my jokes and asked my name
I ordered the nurses to serve us champagne
To ease our anxiety over the bill we’d gain
Checked in the hospital at 845
After searching for parking is a crime
When surgery is not until 1150
Jokes on us kids and not Walt Disney
The nurses said I was in a rush to leave
A good sign they said all yellow laughing
I wanted my phone but it wasn’t at hand
So I joked poked fun a mental happy dance
As they wheeled me away to get dressed
I turned to the lady in pain less depressed
She thanked me for being me eased her mind
I hope that her pain decreased in time
So poet friends I am stuck in the house
But only for a day then I can get out
Thanks for the prayers messages and thoughts
Positive I needed and you all delivered dear hearts
I also appreciate Poetry Soup
I live to write again thanks to YOU
"don't get old!,"
some old-timer
once joked,
but was it, though?
he gave examples...
silver hair,
bad knees
cloudy eyes
bones crack,
mind hunting...
for a name
says he's "rust and bone"
youth, a ghost in mirrors
damn,
he's got me worried!
There was a time
and what a time it was
when I was young, foolish and desperate for love,
looking here and there, most everywhere
and unknowingly, I did not see
you were the one truly meant for me.
You smiled and you laughed
joked how we had shared the past
and if I waited long enough,
I'd see through your calm and quiet disposition
a now familiar recognition
of how love pops where least expected.
Today, far too late
I look back with sorrow and regret
the laughter ringing in my ears yet,
you stood waiting
and I foolishly hesitating
became lost in the moments never taken.
JCBrul's contest - A Time for Us 2-6-26
Full House.
The little house in the poor part of the town
The walls are looking ready to burst.
When the newlyweds were young, it was small
for them, and they spoke of getting another one.
Time was hard, and one child after another
was born, eight in all.
The long-ago newlywed joked they had to
wait to get the house back when
The children became adults and could find their
own place to live; it took time
and finally they were alone, but not at peace,
The whole quarter of rickety houses was
being erased like removing memories of hard times,
And the bulldozers came.
The couple got a small flat in a high-rise building
and with their children moving in or out
According to their bad luck in life,
The small flat was soon full of bickering adult children.
Close together, we chat.
Relatives, cousins - our mothers: the twins.
In the wind, ghosts;
we speculate.
We wonder while we
chitchat and munch.
Distant memories
of practical jokes, tokes;
days before she ran away;
& not questioning her
upon her return.
Sitting on my lavender bedspread;
laughing, listening; forlorn-ing.
Her i.d. tags, army surplus look,
blonde hair; my long locks, dark brunette.
In the Summer week,
we speculate on ghosts;
something we know nothing about.
We stood, took turns
standing over his coffin -
her brother joked
to relieve the tense.
All together, our gang;
our mother’s brother was twenty-five…
My cousin was fifty-two;
in the wind, ghosts,
I’ve surpassed
speculation, leans differently today,
knowing one day,
this world will fade,
as another comes into view.
Close together, we’ll chat,
as relatives speculate.
My brother and I,
while choosing a name for my nephew,
tried hard to think of something unique—
something with variety and charm.
“Tractor” was the first choice,
then came “Tumbler,”
and we fell breathless with laughter,
comparing impossible things—
his eyes to stretching bubblegum.
We joked about how his name
might sound when he grew older.
Laughs and tears rolled down our cheeks.
I was soldering dreams on a PCB,
Fighting a chip that refused to agree.
Multimeter in one hand, wire in the other—
Voltage spikes like no one’s bother.
Then came the call—a soft little beep,
Right when my circuit fell asleep.
I picked it up with a sigh so tall…
Didn’t expect you on that one-minute call.
"Hey, resistor brain, still alive?"
You joked as my heart hit overdrive.
My logic gates all flipped to high,
Capacitors charged, and so did I.
You said you missed me (with static delay),
I said, “Same here,” in my ohm-ish way.
We laughed about wires and life on hold—
Your voice was warm, my soldering cold.
No datasheet ever warned of this,
That love could spark with just a kiss—
Of words so quick, yet somehow deep,
That made my digital heart lose sleep.
Oh darling, in circuits, I deal with noise,
But your voice cuts through, brings quiet and poise.
That one minute call? Just sixty small seconds…
Yet my entire heart it somehow re-sequenced.
So call me again, like a rising sine wave,
In this tangled breadboard life I brave.
Because in a world of signals and sprawl,
You're the only frequency I want to call.
Inspired by the Iron Maiden Song, Tears of a Clown
Drinking, he recalled the Circus Grim,
and the strange world that ruined him.
He had done anything for a laugh.
Once, the magician sawed him in half.
He'd traveled the whole country round.
Now tears fall from the circus clown.
An orphan child, running from disaster,
fell into the service of a cruel ringmaster.
At first, he was never seen on stage,
laboring to clean a hungry lion's cage.
In dreams, he wore a jewelled crown,
and he rose to fame and renown.
The juggler, fire-eater and contortionist,
joked with him and the beauty he loved best.
It was then, a drunken challenge, he made,
and, to his surprise she accepted, unafraid.
She caught his eye as she came down,
a moment frozen for a circus clown.
His secret love, he thought, flew like a dove,
enchanting him, like an angel above.
No matter how he tries, he won't forget,
the trapeze girl who missed the net.
He'll swill whisky until he drowns
in tears, the broken-hearted circus clown.
You laughed too hard in 1996/
Thought I'd trip and stay down for kicks/
But I climbed back up, twice the size/
Now I shred, watch the sparks fly/
My drummer joked, said guitars are lame/
Left him roadside, questioning fame/
Why does a guitar need a case, he asked/
To contain its stringed up past/
Steel strings bend, the pick obeys/
My solos melt minds in dazzling rays/
You call it noise; I call it fate/
Crowds roar, my riffs attack/
Like a clown with a vengeance strapped to his back/
Why did the guitar cross the road/
To escape tuning abuse overload/
Strumming stainless, lyrics sharp/
Every chord bite, every note barks/
What's a guitarist least favorite job/
A fretting accountant, stuck in a fog/
Clowns don't cry, we shred and slay/
This guitar doesn't play, it dictates the day/
Why did the guitar get detention in class/
It couldn't stop playing tricks so crass/
Now I roll into your town, no disguise/
My solos make statues blink their eyes/
One last joke before I'm done/
Why don't guitars ever tell lies/
Because their strings keep them strung/
He said he’d watched a tutorial.
He said symmetry was a myth
fueled by Big Geometry.
I laughed. That was my first mistake.
My second was passing him the scissors
without asking him about his dominant hand.
(It was vibes. His hand was vibes.)
Snip.
He called it edgy. I called it
accidentally spiritual—
because seeing your own scalp
before coffee
is a kind of awakening.
He apologized by making pancakes
in the shape of angels.
I joked, You know these look like ghosts.
He replied so sincerely, I don’t see it.
And that was the moment I knew:
this is who I chose. The kind of man
who conflates confidence with capability,
specters with satiety, and bad haircuts
with love.
I could have done worse.
That bald spot grew over,
like a lot of mistakes—
as if nothing had happened.
But when I hear the snip-snapping
of blades testing the air, I still flinch.
Just a little.
Which is to say, I’m older now,
but still not immune to vanity,
or apology, or pancakes,
especially when they’re fueled
by good intentions.
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