a bow of twine gathers
sepia envelopes and old letters~
the past folded small
Hickory dickery doc, the arms move on the clock, you count the minutes until it's 12, the tears in your eyes begin to well. You write the letters in your books, to mom, to dad, anyone who would be glad, you count the seconds until its 12, until i get to move out of this hell, you tie the rope, you grab the chair, but you just stand there, the rope around your neck but not kicking the chair. You wait, wait until it's 12 and it finally comes, but you're scared, you cry until your eyes are dry, scared to die. So you untie the rope, get off the chair, your neck feels bare. You look at the clock and think in your mind "what would happen if i did it blind".
You don't have to be part of
a grand literary society
Just write with your whole being
and set it free
You also don't need some great stage
Someone, somewhere,may need
your voice set to the page
You never know who you may reach
or the lives that you might change
By: J.N.R Dutton
I send letters to you
Even though I know I am talking to the wall
There is a soft point in me
That still waits
Still hopes
But walls do not talk
No no they don't.
outcasts
orphans
they found home in each other
always together
never far
Distance was never a problem
Two peas in a Pod
those twos
they have been friends since forever
people would pair them up
while they tried to catch the train
life flew by in the same manner
Distance became a problem
she got into science
while he got into art
she was practical
always thinking
he was delusional
always writing
playing pranks
while she got into trouble
trying to get him out
playing keep away with her glasses
while she punches him in the gut
she could bear anything but his tears
while he could bear anything but her anger
losing her, his only fear
Now do you think distance could be an obstacle
writing was his passion
while she was his need
c'mon
letters they wrote everyday
regardless of the weather
Now people will twist it
by saying it was love letters
but should i tell you what was written in them
I am getting married
you better attend
I was tying my shoes
Wrapped with thoughts of death
Wondered if the stone beneath me
Would appreciate the human dire
Splashed over it like ketchup
And no, it wasn’t thoughts of suicide
For I know death is not really what I want
Maybe I do write letters sometimes
About my last day on this ground,
but they're just words caused by pain
And yet I can’t help but wonder
If murderers do feel fear when they kill
I wonder if the sin of lying is equal to killing
Django draws his pistol
and shoots out "D"
from pronunciation of his name.
No one hears the "W"
needed to do real damage
in "Wreck."
"Island" might as well
toss its "S" into the shallows.
No one needs to see it
if it's as quiet as a mouse.
The "K" in "Knight,"
a Mustang that has galloped
too far into the badlands
no one hears it go..."Neigh!"
The one in "Knife"
silently slices and dices
as if through butter.
Not a soul was around
to hear the audible flush
that sent "B" in "Plumber"
down the toilet.
The "G" in "Gnat"
creates no buzz in the air,
and has no sting.
The one in "Gnaw,"
broke a jaw attempting to bite.
Did I mention it has...
no teeth? It's all gums.
characters and symbols written in forms
fonts and cases stroked and scrolled
in the chamber of gold
sepia envelopes tied in twine~
letters beneath holding their silence
twine binds the years~
old cards resting on older letters,
each one a small echo
still reaching for me.
The tiny giant
was independently reliant.
He was brutely handsome, such a pity
because she was awfully pretty.
The old news came in a deafening whisper.
She read it slowly and brisker.
He was a knight by day.
She left a bitter sweet note with joyful dismay.
Hand written on a typewriter.
Her heart was heavy and so much lighter.
He was riding at a slow speed
when he had a deliberate accident on his steed.
She let out a silent scream
when she saw the invisible scene.
It was on TV.
A live recording for all to see.
He swapped his horse for an ox
from the school of hard knocks.
The beast was dumb and much dafter.
Her knight died and they all lived happily ever after.
This is a true story all fiction to be sure on.
Now all she has is his OXY-MORON.
sepia letters rest
time folded into silence
secrets they won’t tell
When we don’t pronounce silent letters while speaking,
They’ve secret messages to tell, let’s keep them in writing.
Like letter “t” in a word listen has a silent scream for all,
Teaching us the key to understanding, let’s answer its call!
B in word subtle reminds us not to use force or loud demands,
For social situations with grace, be users of soft cues and nuance.
K of word knives says keep them away from children,
To avoid accidents and harm, use them only in the kitchen.
W in write reminds that words are expressions of thoughts,
Scribbling with pen and paper will free us from fear and doubts.
H in honesty or honor highlights our highest moral values
H in hour greets, “Hi! Let’s enjoy life, time’s so precious!”
G in sign, design and resign speaks important marks…signals
Ready to go and build creatively with firm decision, approval.
P in the word receipts demands us to pay financial obligations
P in psychology whispers pay attention on mind and perceptions.
Silent letters in thousand words are all sending messages,
To tell them all, this couplet will definitely run out of pages.
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)
My desk is a graveyard of unsent letters,
each addressed to you,
sealed with the weight of words unspoken.
Maybe someday, when you’re far away enough
that your eyes can’t search mine for the truth,
I’ll send you every word you once inspired…
perhaps when “Mirza Ghalib’s” city lights
take you far from here.
So you’ll finally know you were
the poem I never posted but always kept.
~Nilashree
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