Written: September 24, 2026
**********
The house grows quiet, voices fade away,
Empty chairs wait guests who won't arrive.
The telephone robotic rings betray,
Silence that surrounds me, makes me strive.
My knuckles built up their own syntax,
Every joint and bone is mapped by ache.
A display of pills on the top of the tacks,
A week of tunnels and no house break.
Friends as stones I've gathered over the years,
Some polished smooth, others jagged, worn.
Doctor's waiting room now calms my fears,
No mantelpiece gatherings, no morn.
Feelings of loneliness are as thick as rain,
Its monotonous, never-ending of night.
I speak to screens, endure the loop again,
For comfort in the artificial light.
Yet dawn comes, the kitchen window stays,
Coffee still holds a flavor, rich and deep.
I'm still here counting on my numbered days,
Still someone's father, still the love to keep.
For children's names I'd memorize, their needs,
Through every darkness, through hardest falls.
The body is tired, but love still intercedes,
And life, though shaking, still recalls.
moon-mended water drifts
mist-marked shadows wander
morning-made quiet rises
moss-mapped stones remember
mid-tide murmurs soften
marsh-misted air settles
meadow-mild minutes linger
Forecast of Uncertainties in this World
I unlocked my planner and set the timer,
Mapped out the itinerary, made everything
Rhyme.
I checked the screen for a clear blue sky,
But the world doesn't care about a "How or a "Why",
The Forecast shifts from minute to minute,
A brand-new hour with a surprise gathered in it.
I write down my future in unending ink,
But the world has an eraser faster than you Think.
There's no app to download for what's coming next,
No warning notification or heads-up text.
We're all just driving through a heavy mist,
Checking off boxes on a broken list.
But maybe the trick to the shifting wind,
Perhaps is letting the unexpected moments in.
You can't control where the whirlwind will blow,
You just modify your sails and let the rest go.
Through shifting sands and
ticking gears,
I traced your shadow down
the years.
Past falling stars and velvet skies,
To seek the welcome of your
eyes.
I vaulted centuries of stone,
A restless traveler, worlds
alone,
Guided by a timeless spark,
A burning compass in the
dark.
For what are epochs, swift or
slow,
When all my paths are
mapped to you?
A thousand lifetimes carved
in sand,
Just for the chance to hold
your hand.
Whenever I see someone
Sprawled on a bench,
Exposed to the elements,
Hands in a clench,
I wonder if long ago,
Curled in his crib
Or perched in his high chair,
With drips on his bib,
A mom or a dad,
With the tenderest gaze,
Saw their hopes for their son
Mapped in various ways.
They certainly never
Imagined him stuck
On a bench in a city park,
Down on his luck.
Few passersby stop,
(And yes, that includes me)
Rarely thinking about
How such things come to be.
The road stretches out to a bend in the trees,
Where the fog hangs heavy and low on the breeze.
I cannot see over the crest of the hill,
Or what lies in wait where the valley is still.
But I know the Master who mapped out the trace,
And I know the beauty that waits at the place
Where the journey concludes and the shadows give way
To the brilliant, unbroken frontier of the day.
So, I walk by faith, or I should say I run this race,
Untethered from sight and only by grace.
With each steady footprint, the horizon is clear,
For the Voice that commanded the road is right here.
Completely dependent, a child by the hand,
I trust Him to level the rough, broken land.
I need not the map, nor the view from the gate—
I just need the Father who makes the way straight.
The Moon is my witness
the night you said you loved me true
and twinkling stars looked down
and heard it too
Passing clouds carried the news
straight to my heart
which etched in your spoken words
that we would never part
A creeping Badger
looked up and frowned
seeing us together
not making a sound
Kissing and Cuddling
like lovers do
holding each other tightly
as a gentle wind blew
As the Moon is my witness
I will never forget
the look in your eyes
and will never regret
saying I love you
as was my reply
and I would never leave you
till the day I die
Those twinkling stars
have mapped out my heart
as our love reaches a crescendo
like cupids flying dart
you say that our love is forever
eternity at least
sat here in the wooded darkness
like Beauty and the Beast
You arrived the way breath arrives
without announcement,
without asking,
and made yourself essential.
White as the silence between lockdowns,
you crossed the threshold the way light crosses a room:
not invited,
not refused, simply, completely present.
Cloud-pawed, pink-nosed sovereign,
you chose Chaky's lap the way a river chooses its course,
not by permission but by the quiet insistence of gravity,
of going where the warmth was.
You sat in the window's crosshatched light
and watched the world contract to our four walls as if you had foreseen it,
as if a small white planet had already mapped this orbit,
had always known this was the house it would fall into and call home.
Between lockdown and lockdown,
you were the open door.
Meowlu: small declaration,
the way a candle declares itself not by shouting but by burning
I live here.
I matter.
I stayed.
And so,
because of you,
because even the smallest warmth holds something larger in its light,
so did Chaky.
Our head is tapped, in bliss mists capped
and lower chakras join the dance.
We walk on a path God has mapped,
silence and stillness our soul’s stance.
The Absolute is recognised,
manifest and unmanifest
but we are not self-realised,
for ego’s an unwelcome guest.
Be this as it may, we are still,
poised in the void, by bliss seduced;
love perches on heart’s window sill,
leaving nothing to be deduced.
I really don't know what to do anymore
Is God really still there
I feel my heart was broken in two
Does the world even still care
Broken but I am somebody
I think it routes back to me
Grief can not stay buried in disappointment
It all called footsteps to gods mapped out for us destiny
I love him still with all my heart
But was I just a fool
The things he did to build for him
Was my naiveness just his tool?
Once upon a time
God and his Son
Created something very beautiful
For everyone.
Jesus said, "I rejoiced
Over his habitable earth;
I was especially fond of mankind."
To my heart, they held great worth.
So when the plot was thwarted
By one of God's angelic sons,
He and Jesus mapped out a plan
That could not be overcome.
As a recommendation
Of God's own love,
Jesus would unravel sin's effects
When sent to us from above.
"Sin" is merely our condition.
We are all imperfect.
So Jehovah and Jesus operate
To remove our deep defect.
Although the ransom of Christ Jesus
Was the mightiest of cost.
"Jesus came to seek
And save what was lost."
"This saying is trustworthy
And deserving of full acceptance:
Jesus came into the world to save sinners"
And restore many to repentance.
And so we warmly welcome you
To join us if you can
To remember what Jesus did for us
On the 14th of Nisan.
(Proverbs 8:31; Romans 5:8; Luke 19:10;
1 Timothy 1:15)
Power does not shout.
It collects.
What shocks the world
is not strategy,
but hypocrisy.
America preaches sovereignty.
Yet demands yours.
Data is sacred at home.
Disposable abroad.
African leaders,
you sign away bodies
you do not own.
Consent was never asked.
Silence was purchased.
Even foolishness
has a limit.
How long will you trade futures
for promises?
Data is not paperwork.
It is power.
He who owns it
writes tomorrow.
You hand over blood,
bones,
and breath—
then call it partnership.
You trust a deal
crafted by Donald Trump,
a man who measures nations
by profit, not dignity.
You trade minerals
for ink.
Lives
for paper.
What will your children inherit—
databases,
or chains?
Through data,
Africa is mapped.
Measured.
Exposed.
Colonies no longer need soldiers.
Only servers.
Citizens of Africa,
history is watching.
A ruler who sells his people
is not a leader.
He is a broker.
And power,
as Niccolò Machiavelli warned,
respects only those
who guard it.
Remember this:
Who controls data
controls destiny.
And destiny, once surrendered,
is rarely returned.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morning light finds the cracks first~
those rivers mapped by laughter,
by squinting at horizons now behind me.
My knees complain like rusty hinges,
but they still bend.
My hands, spotted with time,
still remember how to write shorthand,
how to cradle a newborn’s head.
I collect aches like souvenirs,
each one a receipt for living~
the hip that remembers the fall,
the shoulder that recalls the weight
of carrying someone else.
The young sprint past me,
their bodies loud with urgency.
I linger by the lilacs,
learning the art of standing still,
the slow art of gathering shadows,
and knowing which ones to lean into,
which ones to outrun.
Aging is marvelous.
Aging is strange.
Aging is wearing a coat
that can’t be returned.
Oh my lord
Will you ever shush
Always aching and moaning
With your constant push
...to speak
Your mouth is evil
Always gets us slapped
No one wants to hear
How your life is mapped
...in TRUTH
Who shiz a git
If you get touched, mauled
Yes their corners are stuffed
With secrets that have called
...to innocence
Poor baby got broken
By big bad boisterous boys
No sighs or infant cries
Because little pitchers hear every noise
...scream for help
Thanks, body, for your use
Don't pelt me with sorrow and pain
I wasn't the one seeking
Illegal gain
...from the naive
With every roar you make
I will medicate with prescription
Letting educated men, guess
At cause for dereliction
...of duty
Survival demands my attention....
Written by Trudy Schrader on 01-22-2026
What is more terrifying than a closed door?
A breath, a floorboard creak, a dull thud of
danger impending. A shadow fleeting, a rustle
of leaves from window left open. A sigh in silence.
The threat and the jolt, the spook, stalk and kill;
the call is coming from inside the house.
What is more terrifying than a closed door?
An opening to nowhere to ambiguity to hollow,
to fear, fall or flounder, to stagger then stumble. A pit.
Beyond that closed door, beyond key, lock and bolt
are sentences incomplete, threads still unspooling,
whispers vague and steam swirling. An intangible 'then'.
An open door, however, is in fact more terrifying:
the unknown bend of a corridor, a life mapped
out on tracing paper. Invisible ink dropped,
dotted behind. Splashes unseen left as breadcrumbs.
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