Some witchery has happened in my past
As I was prowling swiftly through the woods,
The scent of freedom in my nose, my lungs,
My hungry stomach and my lonely soul.
That fateful evening as I fell asleep
There was no premonition and no hint
That in the morning as the sun appeared
I’d realize that I was not myself.
What were these hairless long and stumbling legs?
What were these arms that didn’t touch the ground?
What were these teeth that couldn’t maim and kill?
And this desire for a human’s touch?
Since that much-hated day I’ve lived in towns
And villages with people who do not
Suspect the origins of my unhuman self.
I eat their food, I dance around their fires,
But once a month, when skies explode the moon,
And when my past is screaming in my face,
My every tooth becomes a canine knife;
I’m on all fours, I flee towards the woods…
The morning comes, and being back in this
Forever weak, forever naked flesh
Is worth the taste of fresh delicious blood
Upon my chops, if only once a month.
The radio towers died at noon, the screens went blank and cold,
And static ceased to whisper of the empires bought and sold.
Down in the deep concrete redoubts, where millions gasped for air,
The ordinary citizens were stripped of their despair.
But in its place came something vast, a terrible, clean weight—
The absolute, unyielding hush that settled at the gate.
For thirty days no leader spoke, no siren pierced the dark,
The automated generators left a silent spark.
Men stared into their calloused hands, unable to recall
The frantic noise that used to drive their backs against the wall.
The silence was a physical thing, a pressure in the ear,
That forced the crowded bunker-rooms to face their oldest fear.
Yet by the third long, wordless week, the madness turned to rest,
As heartbeat matched to heartbeat in the quiet of the chest.
They learned to read the shifts of light, the breathing of the crowd,
And found a stranger, softer tongue where nothing was allowed.
Before the silver wood reached down to claim the planet's lease,
The bunker citizens survived the suffocating peace.
September is a season in between,
where nature is silently changing.
Where what is grown becomes a harvest.
Where stocks of corn invite a harvest,
with longer nights and shorter days between.
To reap the fields in a season changing.
September for farmers is a time of changing.
When fields are plowed after the harvest,
as they move from fields to silos in between.
September's changing between seasons brings a harvest.
Month eight
was great
month nine
will shine
hot days
sun rays
turn cool
the rule
as fall
will call
to change
arrange
new scenes
by means
new glow
bestow
with red
instead
plus gold
to hold
our view
as new
landscapes
escape
dark greens
serene
will fade
leaves laid
to keep
asleep
month nine
will shine
Gun is fired
Friction-slick bullets heat the barrel shocking the shoulder finding a new place in its socket
Metal pellets rain like rain or hail
As opposed to paper pellets or those made of grain derivatives
How many glyphs exist?
Those recognized by some higher authority
And how many more are there that go unaccounted for?
I have a set of my own
It is smart to keep part of yourself unaccounted for
Keep it on pages buried in second-hand drawer chests
When does a spider's web become a cobweb?
How much dust has to fall?
How many days?
Can we quantify it?
Dusts rain like rain, not like hail
Or like bird feathers telling you something must've happened above
Something of note
I refuse to dust
To wipe away my calendar
Non-numerical calendar grids
Compress to fit into layers
Layers only distinguished by time of fall
Of rain
Of feather
Not by barrier, nor boundary, nor anything which can be marked
Only known
It is only known that upon waking from sleep or else what
That more dust is there
Or maybe that
The surface of my skin has changed
The fibers of my clothes are more worn
And gravity still complies with its law
There once was a squirrel named Tippy
who loved ice cream that was chocolate chippy.
He’d wiggle and grin
as he dipped right in
that tiny-paw thief was so lippy.
With a bronze wind you shattered
All my dusk until my breath
Spilling toward the morning scattered
What it feared and what it left.
Ever clearer now it rises,
Held by light yet wandering free:
Thus it sings your slow surprises,
June, unfolding even me.
Pitter patter of little feet
Running around so happy
At every age a blessing too
As they learn so do you
Reading a fable of their choice
Hearing excitement in a voice
Watching them learn about life
Seeing the world through new eyes
Homemade cards with handprints
Touching your heart you lament
They will grow up from lap to arms
You never get enough of their charm
And you look forward to their growth
Off to college eager excited with hope
Empty nest but full heart of love
Watch them fly high as white dove
After they graduate you feel pride
Reflecting how fast life goes by
Month of the child celebrating
How much we love our offspring
Written: May 28, 2026,
****************
Barbados once sang in May—
Children's struts with dynamic gameplay.
November calls, in step with the world,
where love flags for all kids are unfurled.
November music is cheerful and bright,
Children's voice, the happiness ignites.
Palm trees wobble slowly as artists dance,
sprigs slap slightly, as their feet prance.
Kites sail over the sky in dazzling shades,
Stories of destiny are yet to be made.
Each child shows a flame, each grin a spire,
A symbol of vitality for the island to inspire.
“Slow down,” says the sea with shimmering hand,
“Listen to children, they brighten the land.”
From May to November, the message is one—
Barbados shines brighter when children have fun.
"May is the month of promise and the sweet beginnings of summer." - Unknown
May is a time for celebrations--
weddings, Mother’s Day, and graduations.
Closing of school doors brings jubilation.
On Armed Forces Day* and Memorial Day,
we praise our military. “Taps” will play.
For those currently serving, we will pray.
In May, folks start firing up the grills,
signaling the coming of summer thrills.
*May 16 this year
May is the month
For sun and rain to calm
All the hearts who’ve known
The hope of a gentle psalm
May is the time
For earth and sky to write
Stories of creation,
All the world seems right
May is the prayer
For heart and soul kneel,
Raising hands to heaven
Knowing God, it’s Him I feel
May is the month
For life to begin anew,
A heart to hear God’s voice
As the wind sings true
May is the miracle
Written by God’s grace
The gentle joy and purpose
As we rest in His embrace
"May the queen of blossoms, and fulfilling flowers, what pretty music shall we charm the hours?" - Lord Edward Thurlow,
You hold spring beauty in your pouch,
Kangaroo-style; yes, queen of blossoms,
You weave a tapestry of bright colors.
Oh, your sunflowers; they crane their necks
To follow the bright afternoon sun.
Your blooming chrysanthemums, arresting;
Flirting with butterflies and hummingbirds.
Your h e a l i n g rain overflow my cup
With gratitude; you stay dressed up in green.
I hear birds tweet their mirth. I love thee, May.
"May, queen of blossoms, and fulfilling flowers, what pretty music shall we charm the hours?" - Lord Edward Thurlow
May is greeted with blooms bathed in dew
She's crowned with a diadem new
All around is seen spring's sweet presence
Bulbs have sprung back with a vengeance
Butterflies flit round blooms of red and white
Serving all eyes a delightful feast
Earth is clad in silky emerald dress
Amid flowers, bees restlessly buzz
Birds hop from branch to branch, a happy throng
Pouring delight through their dulcet song
For the first 17 years, nothing much changed.
But there are two events vivid in my memory.
My father's demise, changed everything.
It unveiled my first taste of instabilty.
Daddy wasn't perfect, but he was always there.
He did not always bother to understand,
But all 12 of us knew that he always cared.
He was a rock without one trace of sand.
The second event was graduating high school.
This happened four years after daddy's demise.
No longer would a creek be my swimming pool;
And farm work would no longer be despised.
I was becoming an adult, being set free.
Those two events in May have stuck with me.
"May is the month of expectation, the
month of wishes, the month of hope."
Quote by_ Emily Brontë
May is when spring is springing,
and flowers bloom and wild birds are singing.
When the bees and butterflies prance,
and gardens grow and flowers dance,
and on Mother's Day I pray in a trance.
Mother lift up my heart,
make every sorrow and pain depart.
Fill my soul with divine peace,
as I grow you a garden showpiece,
and may the blue skies and sun not cease.
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