and salted sarcasm
just like the air
I forgot was there
I always needed you
Mermaids laugh
at my cutting semantics
and manic mannerisms
on calloused rocks,
because they miss
the texture of sound
They listen better
than two-legged fools
Everything has limits
This house has 90 degree walls
This mocking bird will tire eventually
These words keep a flat straight line
This skin keeps the blood inside
warmer than love
Break through Ben,
even if I hit the ceiling of Heaven,
break it down, Ben
Break it down
There is an anchor with your presence
That moored and stayed my course.
Your life became my essence
That never yields remorse.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
In simple tasks, you re-appear
Like shining shoes or cutting grass.
In times like these, I know you’re near
Here and now, not just the past.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
When familiar smells, fill the kitchen
I remember foods you loved.
So many virtues you were rich in
And your character, beloved.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
My many mannerisms show
That I am more than just your son.
I am part of you where ere I go
For the two of us, are one.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
I pray my son will carry on
The depth of traits from you.
May our legacy live on
And our loving carry through.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
Feel me in my silence
when I may not say a word
Feelings blend inside me,
a beautiful prism in my heart
Touch me softly, hold me tightly
Read my mannerisms, trust my acts
Know that I am genuine from truth
Blooming flowers have nothing to say
They have beauty to show a gift today
Know that if I am in pain, I will heal
Please understand my worries and fears,.
when hidden by this silent veil
I am willing to give the most I can,
for as long as I am here with you
Feel me in my silence
I will show you all that I'm willing to do
Heidi Sands
5/14/26
(C)opyright
Placed 4th.
I am stuck in the Eighties
I am being reminded of you
Every memory of Sherri
Is being invited and excited by
Emmaleigh
She looks so much like you
My dear Sherri
So much it's scary
Her reminder of you
Leads me to the times of our younger selves
In the depths of memories I delve
Even her mannerisms
Remind me of you
Every time I see Emmaleigh
I am taken back to when we
Met [fourscore and seven] in Germany
stop connecting
dinner plates.
There is no room
for nourishment
or meaning.
Forget dessert.
I will be there.
Let me dance naked.
I will be raw
and incorrect.
I am full of manic
mannerisms
and dramatic
gestures
that dance,
however desperately.
Tomorrow
I will edit
the imperfections.
Today,
let it be
in the uneaten peas
on a plate.
The errors
illustrate me.
Your foibles,
the characteristically odd ways
of your individual life appearance,
its mannerisms
your behavioral peculiarities,
and picadilloes,
will all fall away by and by.
What eventually will be left
is this alien species that bears your name.
You have died a thousand times already,
every feature of your character
has been replaced or modified
many times.
Your physicality
rinsed and recycled through
an ever-turning time machine.
Even now, the way you walk, and talk
is at the mercy and behest of a universal tide
and its shifting dunes.
The dead confirm the dead,
what never lived must pass away,
it was all a game of death
that soon will lead to the everlasting,
but not yet,
all is a work in progress,
until then
the Universe of All That Is
experiences itself as
you,
you playing hide and seek
with what you truly are.
You have your Grampa's eyes.
You've got his easy smile and mannerisms.
You radiate contagious good humour.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2025
Something caught between the eyes of fellowship and the riddle of thought makes any setting unforeseeable. Yet, within the mannerisms of those declawed by the very societies they themselves conceived armed only with a utility belt of miraculous misconceptions springs forth exponential, autonomous growth, promised by the ancestors of preconceived notions.
Most often, the spirits of ideas formed upon the fragile spine of inadequate frequencies press us all into a reliable destination, one mastered only through performances of unseen archetypes, driving this windowless vehicle we insist on calling time.
My augmented delusions, I admit, disassociate from the fermentation of your reasoning, and so taint our deductive search for the emotions we struggle to preserve. The tropes of an enigma’s fragrance intoxicate the cerebral moments of free thought, undermining even the simplest reproductive solutions for advancing communication.
And so, as I tear this parchment, I summon an opportunity. Yet what a cumbersome opportunity it is.
I try to suffice the unseen parts of me,
the ones I try so hard to hide,
to take apart,
and rip away the nature,
though it seeps deep in my dna,
and time through time the cycle restarts,
etching every moment,
every breath that I try to do myself,
is in the shadow of someone else,
and every step that I take,
is controlled not only by envy,
but at the thought i am no better than the ones I share blood with,
hence I look into a mirror,
and staring back is a figment of my imagination,
the person i've made myself,
is only in the ignorance of turning out like somebody else,
of having the dishonour and curse of being part of a family fueled by animosity,
the same attributes, the same nose, the same eyes, the same mannerisms,
no matter how hard I try to climb out of this hole and break the loop,
who am I if not following in my parents footsteps?
every step I have took leading to now has been guided by them anyhow,
so its only fairplay,
to pay them back for their care.
in the soft whispers of our shared parlance
sometimes you struggle to pronounce
but with every glance, your mannerisms speak
a silent language, tender and meek
the way your eyes light up with delight
turns ordinary moments into pure light
the rings of bells, the whistles of lips
whispering secrets in sweet little quips
each sound a treasure, a melody spun
we dance through our days, just two becoming one
with every soft murmur and tender embrace
you turn fleeting seconds into a warm space.
“Uncle Celery, Uncle Celery, is chopping all those veggies,”
my impish nieces and nephew who copycat my voice,
and other hand gestures or mannerisms known to me and others,
how they used to ape that voice of mine with their American twang,
“Celery, do you love us for real, will you be our teacher when we’re grown,”
I, Howard, replied that it would be a delightful honour,
“Celery, are you having a fun time with us at all,”
I answered; “every day is a fun day when we’re together,”
one relative blushed: “never mind the mushy stuff, never mind the mush,
It’s not so you’re never, ever going to meet us again.”
She had an adorable cheekiness
Impish mannerisms, coquettish way
There was a fresh earnestness about her
She was not a rogue, but close
Loveable as a three-month-old puppy
With ginger hair instead of fur
And those large chocolate puppy-dog eyes
Alluring, bewitching, captivating, Myra the maid
Engaging, entrancing, enchanting, to the young blade
Her mannerisms and behaviors are most delightful
Words of charming advice, empathetic, and insightful
He brought her home to meet his overbearing mama
She slipped out a side door and rode home on a llama
Confident she could do better than this
A glorious woman who remained forever a miss
All of her life pursued by eager suiters day and night
Never settling, retaining herself, they could not extinguish her light
Mafiosos love fat women insecure sensitive vulnerable this allow the men to pounce at strip clubs sadly all the women in my family are small size 7 shoes Italian Irish American women I cater to the mannerisms of mafia wise guys needing full figures fat women giving them an excuse to pounce I'm truly blessed natural nubian Halle Barry figure however I dress down not to attract mafia prey does that make sense I'm wrapped in the finest garments
Her mannerisms personality HER talk HER walk The way SHE MOVES! That's the Beginning of FALLING for HER....
VOICE! The mildness of it. Even when that musical
instrument rises higher . HER WAYZ AMAZE! This IS WOMAN-- THE
FEMININE MYSTIQUE!
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