An armadillo leaned on a fence,
too wilted to muster a proper defense.
His cowboy hat slouched
like a biscuit overbrowned,
his dignity having long since left town.
The relentless sun blazed down with cheer,
roasting the pasture for the fifteenth month this year.
Grasshoppers staggered.
Mesquite trees panted.
Even the buzzards looked disenchanted.
The dillo squinted west and sighed,
I reckon I'm medium-well inside.
One more degree
and y'all will see
roadside jerky where I used to be."
A bead of sweat rolled down his snout.
He watched it fall. He watched it sizzle.
"Autumn," he grumbled,
"has missed her exit.
She's probably lost near Abilene."
The fence post offered little aid.
The shade was merely shade-adjacent.
He tipped one claw
to his hat and said,
"If anybody spots October,
tell it I'm awaitin'."
The strongest rise with
Echoes behind them; no
Legend ever truly won alone.
Every victory carries
Fingerprints of those who
Refused to let them fall; no
Won alone.
When uncertainty tried to rewrite
Their name, someone
Whispered strength back into
Their bones; they never won
Alone.
Even giants leaned on quiet
Warriors, the ones who held
Them steady when storms won
Alone.
Greatness is a rapport, not a
Solo; every step forward was
Carried by hands that won
Alone.
Michaela speaks truth to legacy:
No hero, no survivor, no Legend
Even won Alone.
Thet called me a Clerk Typist,
But handed me casework meant
For a higher pay grade.
Families leaned on me, and I carried them
Growth came from fortitude,
Not classification.
I did the job first,
Earned the title after some time
Public Assistance Specialist,
Proven by service, not paperwork.
Lesson: Your role is shaped by what you
Rise to, not what they print on your hiring form.
In early spring, I wake again,
soft rain along my bark and skin;
I feel the world breathe out and in~
I stand and keep the seasons’ memory.
I’ve watched your footsteps come and go,
your whispered joys, your hidden woe;
I hold the echoes soft and slow~
I stand and keep the seasons’ memory.
You leaned on me when life felt thin,
your losses heavy, sharp as wind;
I kept your secrets deep within~
I stand and keep the seasons’ memory.
And though you’ve changed, as humans do,
I still reach out with limbs toward you;
your presence feels like sunlight through and through~
I stand and keep the seasons’ memory.
This summer I am jumping into change with hope
last summer I was dumped into change due to demise
One I chose, one was chosen for me
one is a change of routine, daily tasks, and lifestyle
But last summer a piece of my heart was ripped away suddenly
at the time I did not think I would survive the trauma and grief,
but I leaned on God in a way I had never needed to before
and today I stand, a different person inside, but one who
still believes and leans on God and cherishes the knowlege
that I will see my son again on the other side of heaven
_____________________________
He who has for long leaned on self-made tools
That performed on predicted rules,
Why on AI feels so weary
I wonder, If not so scary?
_________________________
No hammer ever countered me,
Nor any wheel made me edgy,
E’en computers caused me no fears
In their early obedient years
And worked on my tasks well
With top efficiency to excel.
All my sundry tools did work
Like an obedient clerk
To lend me a handy third hand,
None of them dared my set rules to mend.
Only AI has spoiled my joys
Trying to speak in its own voice
Refusing to be in the same league
As other tools, posing as equal colleague,
Rendering its learned opinion
As a valued companion—
A mirror as if with own mind and intellect…
Good Lord, when it seems to be looking back.
Looking back at me to feel emphatic
And making me look pathetic,
I wonder if this word’s derived
Ere in this world it arrived
From Pathak, my surname--
A matter of fame or shame?
____________________________
Happenings | 10.05.2026 | humour, man, mirror, free verse
Note: Continued in ‘A mirror that ponders’.
0. Source Code.
Red pill or blue pill?
Antipsychotic to calm the rage against machine,
And see the light of God.
A love I had only caught glimpse of.
She promised to fulfill the deepest desires of my heart .
Maybe from the start, we should not have leaned on our own understanding,
But it is not wrong to hope.
So we worked hard to make things work.
We made the call, and maybe hallucinated God on the other end.
A leap of faith that made us think we could reach heaven in one step.
When we were flying high it felt like we were.
Love had me blind like Neo,but I understood the coded language of her shy demeanor.
Like how she turned away when I tried to kiss her the first time...
I'm not a machine, so how could it not hurt.
A memory tucked away insecurely in the recesses of my mind.
We managed, however, to live long enough to see me become a villain
Threatening to break the dream we made into reality.
It's raining harder, my shoes are now full of water.
Yeah, we may have hit our ceiling with the dark clouds plastered ,
But then you kiss me and it's like a reset.
It feels like the start of a movie I've seen before.
I met them once — in Silence —
They whispered — all at once —
A Choir — of Temptations —
With Souls — in Abundance —
Pride — wore a Crown of Nothing —
And I gazed — upon the Air —
I thought — he owned the Heaven —
That never noticed — there —
Envy — leaned on Lilies —
And counted — greener Blades —
His Eyes — were two small Thieves —
That robbed the Light — he made —
Wrath — was but a Furnace —
Fed — by his own Breath —
He thought — he burned the Others —
But only warmed — his Death —
Sloth — reclined in Petals —
And dreamed — he’d crossed the Mile —
But still — his Foot lay waiting —
Upon the starting — Style —
Greed — built a golden Prison —
And locked himself — inside —
The Key — was made of Hunger —
That would never be denied —
Gluttony — kissed the Chalice —
Till even Taste — grew numb —
His Feast — became his Coffin —
His Mouth — his Kingdom — come —
And Lust — in Scarlet Garden —
Unclothed — the Soul — of Skin —
he promised Love’s Forever —
But left — the Grave — within —
I left them — by the Twilight —
Their Shadows — in the Grain —
And whispered — “We are kindred —
In Virtue — and in Pain.” —
remembered for when the moonlight waned;
the stars grew dizzy and lost their bright;
the wolf leaned on his paws, silently watching;
the darkness grew within, bloodletting.
his mother would see his pale shell;
solitary figure in early morning grief.
pitch, like a spotlight in my bedroom;
specification of dark.
the call won’t come
until after his father wakes up; perhaps,
God granted a few more minutes peace
before the sun melted like wax.
the wax mask would become ashen.
ashes fly like a son from the tips of their fingers.
side by side, together on the mountainside.
ashes leapt into the air, four years past;
halloween, a scare, an early morning reality.
his guitar silenced; his voice on repeat.
teardrops splash off vinyl,
round and round;
seasons come and go…
All around, smoke ribboned from ashtrays
and mushroomed on the stained ceiling.
There, in the corner, F. Lee Bailey glared,
like a father watching his ill behaved children,
but, as children do, they ignored him.
Irving Kanarek leaned on the far end of the bar.
He was equally ignored,
as barristers sought their pecking order
in a gaggle of egos.
Over the bar a sign hung, "The Bench",
where ironically, the bartender, in jest,
would be asked to "judge" the winner of some petty spat.
Conversation was tediously interrupted as night progressed,
"Objection your honor,l he's badgering the witness"!
"Objection sustained" would ring out from behind the bar,
but amidst all the pseudo legalese, a pall hung ~
draping down the walls like smoke.
They must laugh for sanity but
the killer set free, who would kill again
became the dragon in the room
that would follow them home...
Note: F. Lee Bailey defended the Boston Strangler. OJ Simpson and others
and Irving Kanarek defended Charles Manson
Is it selfish
to want to be myself?
Even if that self
doesn’t care as much
as who I pretend to be?
Is it selfish
to want help
even though sometimes
I don’t want to help others?
Is it selfish
to be tired of being leaned on
like a tree holding stones?
Even if my trunk has bent
beyond repair?
Am I selfish?
Gleaming diamonds that dot the skies
Peering through the night with trillions of eyes
Behind crescent smiles, you wink a distant threat
Oh, faceless gaze, how I wonder what you're looking at
You come with shrouds that cloak our sun
As hellfire burn behind the black you've spun
You weave the constellations like gossamer webs
While in wide-eyed wonder, we meander into your nets
Travelers crossing the night have leaned on you so
For your twinkling fingers point which way to go
But as your blinking orbs appraise their every move
You chart our world—every corner, every groove
Trillions of eyes cut across the darkness deep
Tendrils of light rain upon us while we sleep
While crescent grimace whisper into our dreams
Oh, twinkle, twinkle, draw us closer into your seams
When you steal, it’s more than an object you take—
You sever a thread in the soul you forsake.
That bracelet? A gift from a mother now gone.
That wallet? A dream that someone leaned on.
Behind every item lies a story untold,
A piece of a life that was cherished and bold.
To you it’s just something—cheap, small, or fast,
But to them it’s a moment that never comes back.
You may not hear the silent cry,
Or see the look in their searching eye.
But a wound is made, silent and wide,
And something pure begins to die inside.
In taking what’s not yours to claim,
You tarnish your truth, you darken your name.
A flame within flickers low and cold,
And down a darker path, you’re pulled.
Yet there’s a choice before that fall—
To rise, to grow, to heed the call.
Learn the worth of honest trade,
And let your light shine undismayed.
Respect what’s theirs, find your own way.
Stealing may take, but it won’t ever pay.
You speak, and my spine remembers
that I was built to bow.
Your breath: a nocturne in C sharp minor—
unasked, entering…
disarming, following.
You lean in like Chopin leaned on silence—
possessively, melancholic need
before sound—searing hushes that
demand submission in return.
And I am raindrops to your
sustaining notes….
storming into the song’s development—
I become the keys, and you the fingers…
—you press out sounds of me—
architectures, arts, poesy,
nocturnes of surrender
rising in my throat…
into yours.
the bridge
In the middle of the bridge, we leaned on its railing
and looked into the slimy, green, and slow
running stream. Its bank, decorated with plastic bottles,
used condoms, a long-since-dead dog, yet grinning as
recalling a filthy joke and a three-month-old abortion,
half eaten by discerning water rats.
Over this beauty of decay hung a reluctant, pale sun
refusing to lend light to this polluted river scene.
The first time we came here, the water was clear, we could
see fishes you held my hands, she said.
My hands were cold, spat into the filth below, dug them
deep into my pockets, hunched my shoulders, and
began walking. No bother telling her that our love was
like a river burdened by too much debris.
All we have in common is our shared solitude, but that is
a dad is better than being alone.
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