There is a story of a gift,
A Titan of a horse,
The Greeks presented it on wheels -
an olive branch, of course.
The Trojans were so very pleased
And opened city gates,
In rolled the massive equine thing
Now Troy could celebrate!
But all was not just as it seemed
And, as the Trojans slept,
The horse’s belly opened wide
And out Greek soldiers leapt!
All the Trojans met their doom,
Their city razed to ash
The gift they’d thought a lovely horse
Was really meant to smash!
Our modern Troys are still besieged
By tricks and clever ploys,
As Trojan Horses sidle in,
Our systems to destroy.
Across the great plain with sun sprinkled path
they frolicked with the golden buffalo clan.
Dodging black powder chaps along the way
they moved about strong and steady
like a necklace of runaway slaves.
They were cornered at trickster's cliff
guardian angels were on permanent hiatus.
I guess it just wasn't a prosperous gig.
Many leapt to their misty valley fate
a few dug in deep to a sacred place
black powder veiling proud- painted faces
within the last drumbeat of a Capricorn rain.
pink frog was chased away by the divas of the day
she leapt over toadstools and moss, trying to get away
Don’t ever come back! The prejudiced female frogs yelled in a mean way.
Because she was pink, they had quickly chased her away.
YOUTH
at play
active fun
tarmacs chockablock
trikes, bikes, yikes, falling down
shed cheap tears and leapt afresh
"outrunning the sky's purple haze"
Written: August 14, 2025 for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
**********
The wind remembers what I tried to forget—
a voice in the fire, a name in the rain.
I stood on the edge of the world I had built,
watching it crumble, stone by pain.
The dragon I drove was born from fire,
It flew through the dusk of my silent revolt,
chasing the ghosts I could never tame,
Its claws were echoes, and its air was dire.
I cast off the armor, I buried the sword,
but the war in my chest would not cease.
Each heartbeat is a drum, each silence a scream,
each tear a fragment of peace.
The sky opened wide as a wound in the soul,
And I leapt with no promise of ground.
The dragon dissolved into vapor and song,
And I fell where no chains could be found.
Now I walk through the ashes with wings of my own,
not golden, not whole—but free.
And the tears of the dragon still fall in my dreams,
But they no longer belong to me.
A city night, a reckless dare,
Two drinks deep, no thought to spare.
Her lips met mine—sharp, alive—
A spark I’d buried began to thrive.
I’d seen it once in secret’s tent,
A girl’s soft mouth on another bent,
Tracing skin with a tender graze,
A memory that refused to fade.
The flame now leapt, fierce and bright,
But fear slammed shut the door that night.
“This isn’t me,” my voice was weak,
A brittle shell, too scared to speak.
I ran from her, I ran from me,
Into the arms of men set free.
Each kiss a mask, each touch a lie,
Drowning in the roles I’d try.
Two years lost in the masquerade,
Sparks dimmed beneath the parts I played.
A WARDROBE MISHAP
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a squirrel named Marilyn,
In a dress made of white, she was a twirlin’.
With a gust of fresh air on her derriere,
She danced with nary a care,
And the male squirrels cheered, “You’re a sexy darlin’!”
But one day, as she twirled and leapt with delight,
Her dress caught a branch in mid-flight.
With a flap and a flap,
She fell in a snap—
And the other squirrels erupted in fright!
Yet Marilyn laughed, brushed off her dress,
“Just a wardrobe mishap, I confess!
But the breeze, oh so sweet,
Makes my heart skip a beat,
In my fashionable attire, I have such finesse!”
A tusked wolf dips its paw into the brine
the sea is its restless mother.
A proto creature, its bones already growing
razorback fins and horns, it must seek a shell
to hide beneath. The fanged manatee dies for love.
Before the porpoise leapt, before the whale shipped
its gray prow,
Jekyll and Hyde clawed each other
through a gibbosity of flesh. Where the skin flew,
rat tails grew gills and jagged jaws, while
blind behemoths burst out from small pods.
a saline transitioning that even now
wave-washes my naked feet, as the sea
plows me deep -
and does this cold moonlight reveal
the hidden talons of my ever-flowing father?
There is no shame in lingering where possibility lives.”
I tarrow
at the edge of becoming,
half-ghost, half-girl,
unsure which silence to trust.
My fingers
hover over doors I built,
but never dared to open.
Not fully.
There’s a name I no longer say
in the voice I used to have.
There’s a love
pressed between two lifetimes—
not gone, just
folded.
I tarrow,
not out of fear,
but reverence.
Not everything must be leapt into.
Some things deserve
a sacred pause.
So I linger.
So I ache.
So I listen
for what lingers back.
—
So I tarrow through my days,
almost making a decision—
but no.
I tarrow like it’s a holy sacrament.
Living on the margins
makes everything possible.
So I tarrow,
not from fear,
but reverence.
For what might be lost
in a single step forward.
The in-between is my chapel.
The maybe, my prayer.
I am not indecisive—
I am worshipping
possibility.
STAN THE SQUIRREL
In Texas, there lived a squirrel named Stan,
with his six-gun, he defended the land.
He challenged coyotes to duels,
and outsmarted the local old fools,
wielding justice with his special brand.
With a hat made of leather, quite grand,
he scampered and leapt like a cowhand.
He chased off bad guys and crooks,
with his acorn-filled hooks,
outdrawing the best, Stan’s in high demand!
On Friday nights we’d sneak into
the railyard and wait
in the shadows
between the floodlights for a train
slow enough for us to hop,
our hands already tingling
with the promise of flight.
We trotted beside the train,
waiting for the right moment
to grab a boxcar’s ladder
and climb to the roof like outlaws—
aware of the danger
and thrilled by it—
as the train gathered speed.
We jumped as it rounded the curve—
boots hitting gravel, hearts pounding—
but a voice barked out of the dark,
and then a dog, all teeth and fury,
came tearing toward us.
We bolted for the fence
without looking back.
We hit the chain-link fence at speed,
scrambled like fugitives—
I braced for asthma to take me
but my lungs opened wide,
no tightness, no fire, just breath
pure and clean, lifting me over
like I was born to run.
I landed laughing—
heart hammering, lungs still free—
and something in me shifted.
I had outrun fear, leapt past
the story that said I couldn’t—
and for the first time,
I believed it.
journey into a bipolar mind
pebbles in time
.
there were ripples in yesterday’s water
where stones once were tossed
.
pebbles really,
yet enough to form concentric wrinkles
soothing over rough edges
and drowning silly circus clowns
.
each circle died and glass-like waters
were again
still
undisturbed
as though he had not been there
.
perhaps he hadn’t
.
in his head circles rolled onto circles
and the pale painted pony
leapt easily over his uncontested path
.
the music stopped
his eyes closed and no circles remained
ripples collapsed and pebbles dropped
inside his quiet mind
.
time to get off, he thought to himself
as he reached into his pocket and wondered
which was real
the carousel or the glass-like waters
.
in his pocket the pebbles were wet
and the painted ponies were going round again
galloping away
while clowns begged for laughter
.
and he picked up more pebbles from the ice cream stand
.
tolbert
Met an eager charming panhandler today
His smile was unusually bright and gay
Hi he said with friendly eyes and big smile
I was on a jog, had gone about a mile
Hi yourself I sang out in a voice that rivaled his
He looked pleased, not understanding my tone or biz
Do you have some extra change? He asked me
I laughed and giggled and slapped one knee
Extra change. What does that mean? I asked
His face was not as Pollyanna-smiling-masked
Money you don’t need, dollars will do too
His expression was innocent, his eyes bright blue
A buck or five, twenty would be welcome and plenty
I laughed, amused tears at this begging bold ninny
These tears ran down my face and fell off my blouse
I could use your spare twenties, I told this blatant louse.
You are asking me for money? He said.
His eyes nearly leapt out of his head
If you don’t have a twenty, a hundred would do I replied.
The panhandler walked off, ignoring my gloat of pride.
She painted the silence between stars,
Colors blooming where sorrow hides,
Each stroke a whisper, each canvas wide
With dreams that leapt beyond her scars.
Younger by decades, yet wise with light,
She’d gift you skies with a laughing tone,
A mountain’s hush, a prayer in stone—
And never once spoke of her fight.
The pain, she wrapped in sacred thread,
Wove it soft in god-lit space,
While we, unknowing, saw her grace—
Not the shadows that quietly bled.
No bitter cries, no mournful tale,
She bore her grief with a painter’s pride,
And when the healing failed, she tried
A higher power, pale and pale.
Her last breath came like snow on glass,
A hush, a fall, a peace, a hush—
As if she slipped from morning’s blush
To where all suffering comes to pass.
I hold her art like holy fire,
Each canvas now a memory’s breath—
Alive, though she sleeps past death,
In brushstrokes that will never tire.
So here's to her—who lived, not bowed,
Who gave, not broke, who passed, not fled—
And in the cold, kind arms of dread,
Left behind colors that speak aloud.
Find my hand dreaming in this blaze of consolidation
Lighten your lift from out our tell-tale indentation
Brush off the beach in trickles that echoes still our play
above where my knees have offered themselves to pray
Under swaying shadows rustle out breezes cast from azure pools
Where white peaks slip into sprays spilling seas mirrored in jewels
Find sun drenched lips longing to be lapped free of the saline mist
Press them gently, offer what's left to us, your best Girl Friday kiss
Feel the naked surf pound, then tempt, crash back into zestful shove
Rush with me to join in being swept out, carried away, leapt above
Glow in emulation for this day that throws you around as your guide
Dive to where sand dollars hide their riches to find me deep inside
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