To express through words,you
dance with poetry
You strike a chord and you sing
With a low, soft voice
a gentle humming sound that drifts into the clouds
You sing a love a song for your beloved
Sing,sing for your beloved
Just like a bird platmying melodies
The rhythm, the rhythm of the song
As a sweet,the beautiful melody
Wake up
You soothe your voice like a bird
That chirps
You play a beautiful melody
Starting a song all of a sudden
dancing to songs of joy and celebration
A short time filled with happiness
Humming always with pure joys
A song to put a body to sleep
As a sweet,beautiful melody
Wakes up
Your honor, I confess: if even
I were a native English speaker,
A tenured Cambridge-born professor,
And knew the language like the back of
My own, I’d never write like that.
Your honor, I confess: if even
I were the most exalted thinker,
The most unorthodox, uncanny,
Convention-redefining dreamer,
I wouldn’t dare to think like that.
Your honor, I confess: if even
I were a Romeo, a Tristan,
An ageless perfect Mr. Darcy,
A poet of eternal passion,
I couldn’t hope to love like that.
ran dumb thought
about bought
lesee i let AI o u
tune my poems
and it's so true
entomb my tomes
now for guilt
wrapping quilt
or satisfaction or both
placate faction doth
i don't write know more
blank white boar
less than not
in ending this
game of rot
composting fbook
if you care to look
just don't kiss
any dyslexic
mix or be sic
sans which rye
on rub in put in pi
know where going
less point more thumb
all ready now showing
orange ain't knew dumb
can't get past
third weak
sans rubbing kash
praytell pay less
peter's pall
merrikka stall
must get this sin
don't kill venezuelan
since rus needs busy be
now that you crane
has no see
but blown apart brain
an wouldn't want sia
defend with weapon i ran
brics expect expand
wooden wont bee ya
all drunk
aslib progressive punk
hanging hard
on mccarthy card
ptsd owns petard
widow mite well discard
hope sans nope
smoke in dumpster
grand master
some kind disaster
bad star scopes afar
goin' comin' bummin'
be a bummer
drive beatle hummer
lessee AI o u
pay rent come spent
less point more hint
The Art of Saying Nothing
Gather the soft clay while you can,
the junk mail, the tissue paper, the living speech of man.
Be utterly open to the frozen winter landscape,
to the buttercup, the faded blue, the magic flight, the shape.
At first it is a lumpy loom, a box of random words,
a snowman flying wordless with the melancholic birds.
Layer the torn washi tape, let common accents fall,
poetry is the art of saying nothing much at all.
Then take the chisel to the stone to free the hidden face,
cut away the lazy phrase, the ghost of time and space.
The mystery is the absence, the silence left behind,
the lines that shine like stars inside the borders of the mind.
No rigid rules to shackle verse, just listen to the air,
read the beating line aloud and strip the sculpture bare.
For gifts are not the reason that we block the text in blue
we only do it for the rhythm, pushing, pulling through.
‘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
A bully found within—
always the one wronged,
going to great lengths
to communicate your offence
at things so trivial.
You are the ironic
definition of the humdudgeon!
Almost obsolete in the dictionary
and modern use.
When you were needed most,
you were gone.
Thou anchor of my all, of love and life,
For in a marriage, hearts both beat for two;
For thou art woven with me, wove and wife,
For thus, while growing old, we do renew.
Stumbling through the language of the city,
I walked today
through the middle of a battlefield.
Blood.
Death.
Destruction.
And yet, tomorrow
will bring another new beginning.
A brooding, reverberating,
suffocating silence.
A shattered, broken world.
I plunge my hands into the earth
and paint a picture of revolution.
After a long life in exile,
I return to the village
and find how much
the homes and settlements have changed.
The traces of my childhood
are no longer there.
My eyes fill with tears.
Scattered, rough-edged pebbles,
broken branches of trees,
fragments of shells.
And yet, carrying all their mysteries
and adventures,
they return to me,
again and again.
wipe themselves
the tears in my eyes away.
For so long,
I have told the next generation
so many lies.
Now I have folded myself inward,
away from my own self.
Gender dysphoria,
distress, puberty blockers,
the search for gender identity,
hormone therapy.
Gender transition
continues to unfold
by individual choice.
Boys become girls,
girls become boys.
And even that
gives some people
a headache.
whispering through a crescendo
I accommodate his monolingually
always spoke prim and smoothed
commercialize me .
be impeccable or simultaneously lukewarm
never to undress again
classic
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • September 14–20, 2026)
The Way is silent,
It was not to be, nor was it not to be.
There are no questions,
Not even a word.
Never say never,
I know that I know nothing.
Being is in Becoming.
So is life.
Paradoxical.
So I will say these things, so I will live, as only the nonsensical can make sense of this.
The order of Light
is to experience
common Truth itself.
Language is not a perfect game —
more than the sum of things,
like moon, sky, centre, body, bed —
all the singing masters know.
Picture two lovers — wake
to hold the real world —
by body,
word by word;
Wild halos — their thought.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
For Gwen Harwood (1920–1995)
Who taught us that thought is surrounded by Light, and that Love holds the real and imagined world.
Blackout poetry extraction from the original poem —
“Thought is Surrounded by a Halo” by Australian poet Gwen Harwood (Brisbane, Queensland, Australia).
I think the language of dating tends to be intentionally overeducated, because modern romance often requires forensic attention to fragments: eye movements, direct response or response delay and strategic silence.
The term ‘boyfriend’ is a deliberate allocation of trust.
Though we kiss for control with charming nonchalance,
it’s gritty and everyday, not decorative companionship.
He’s seen my worst screenshots
On another note..
I love staying up late at morning
I have vampire tendencies
that’s my frequency
Should I start to turn in earlier
or wait for school to begin
I’m that kind of worrier
that’s the way my world spins
.
.
A song for this:
Deny by La Sécurité
You know what happens in Japanese-Americanese elections
They pronounce l’s as r’s, so with 55% of the barrots counted
CBS and ABC ahl carring it a big e _ _ _ _ _ _ n.
Open Mind Words
In this year through my poem,
with truth, my friend —
Viewer,
you who respect a picture that heals,
look.
Reflect the appearance of a mirror.
The explanation of a step
brings the face forward.
You resemble good news
of humanity.
Stand still.
STOP.
An example of doing like that —
reflect so I can look.
You turn around
so I face backwards
to find for myself
the feeling
that I am a real person.
These are my open mind words.
Nna le wena, mogwera,
O tsweletseng Seiponeng
Mantšu a gago a
Ke eme ka maoto bjale.
I am not ashamed.this trembling body is not to be shaken,
Compromised and body not to regret oneself.
Have a friction.be someone who is intense.
To be points to the person and fierce.
Refusing to ask for forgiveness,
And I refuse to ask for forgiveness.
Colour my world
Asher chipu
26/09/2026
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