Shabby chic was her style
she paraded proud for all to see
~ work of art in motion
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
a life so quickly passes
one blink and we can barely comprehend
~ the cycle in perpetual motion
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
in massive commotion, there seldom appears any meaningful motion
I lace my shoes
tight around trembling feet.
Morning fog drifts over the edges of the road
and I stepped into the chill.
Each pace is a heartbeat, each breathes a quiet prayer.
The way extends beyond sight, its outlines softening into mist, yet I move unwavering.
Memories press like weights, old doubts whisper at my back but the wind lifts my chest, and the horizon bends
toward a soft- stubborn hope.
Rocks bump my soles the sun sears at noon and shades cling to my sides.
Yet the rhythm is steady and true
drags me over pain.
Young laughter takes through the air.
I feel it deep within my bones
a gentle reminder: running is more than distance;
each step is patched together.
The final mile arrives
legs scream, lungs ablaze
the heart remembers why it started,
why it runs and pushes forward still.
I move across
not for glory and not for cheers
but for the life each thread
sewed from scattered pieces
into something complete.
The road behind me hums with traces of effort,
each heartbeat a peaceful success
and every sigh a victory.
May we be blessed to understand…
whether traveling in our city, in our country or across the ocean…
traveling with family…with those we love
is the definition of poetry in motion.
She walks, and the world forgets to breathe,
Each step a stanza, soft beneath.
The wind rewrites its course to trace
The rhythm rising from her grace.
Eyes that flicker like candlelight,
Words unsaid, but burning bright.
A sway, a turn, the air responds—
As if she's dancing with the dawns.
Not penned in ink, nor caught in rhyme,
But fluent in the pulse of time.
Every heartbeat, every sigh,
A verse that floats, then flutters by.
She doesn’t speak—she simply moves,
And in her silence, rhythm proves
That poetry is not just heard—
It’s seen, it’s felt, in every wordless word.
So watch her once, and you will see
The soul's own choreography—
Where grace and fire find devotion…
A living poem. Poetry in motion.
frost refracts m
o
o
n
b
e
a
m
s
prismatic interlacing
lights waltz seamlessly
I am here,
on this bench,
as if the world’s still spinning
but I forgot how to move with it.
The air is thick,
like it’s waiting for me to do something
to lift the weight off my shoulders.
But I just…
sit.
Leaves fall,
but I don’t notice
when they hit the ground,
just that they were once up there,
free,
and I wonder if they ever felt
light.
A man jogs past,
his feet like little promises
on the pavement,
and I envy how his legs keep
the rhythm.
I wonder if he knows
how it feels
to be stuck,
to not have the energy
to move
even when everything around you is moving.
A kid’s laughter stabs through the air,
sharp,
like a sound I don’t remember
ever making.
She runs in circles,
spinning,
and for a moment,
I almost remember what it was like
to be free—
but then the memory slips,
just like the wind,
and I’m back here,
alone
and unremarkable,
on this bench,
waiting for something to change
but knowing it won’t.
the sound of waves rocking to and fro
its golden mirth adorns my sleepy dreams
AP: 2nd place 2025
the city awakens
as the sun slowly rises
gears set in motion
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
We're poetic wraiths,
Poets' souls in motion, bards,
Brainiacs, our muse,
Singing around our planet,
Nature, Love's dreams, far beyond.....
Contorting himself like a ball
He rolled all the way to the wall.
When asked as to why,
He’d simply reply,
“In moving this way, I won’t fall.”
Feeling our fontanel pulsate,
enlivened by the pulse of bliss,
there then remains nothing to do,
save in childlike delight to wait,
awestruck as polarities kiss,
betwixt light strobes that so renew.
There is nothing to be divined,
since we have become the bliss flame,
positioned outside space and time,
all nodes of form, divine aligned,
fulfilling in part, our soul’s aim,
as we thus do heavenward climb.
One with oneness, we are the flow,
that transmutes soul in stillness slow.
As we go through life in gentle slow motion,
within this dream seeing everything as play,
by tip-toeing without causing commotion,
with no fears to appease or demons to slay,
invoking grace, sipping love’s magic potion,
rapture fills us breath by breath, day after day.
With this secret now known, consciousness let’s hone,
in time stretched stillness, coming into our own.
Time eases the turbulent days,
And with it comes a deeper understanding of all that life brings,
For every journey through a shrivelled meadow, there is an invigorating hope,
For every darkness in a chamber, there is a rising light.
Monsters staring through the window no longer disturb the mind,
The ominous things that the day brings do not evoke fear,
The strange encounters in slumber do not intrude on the day's goodwill,
The morning light serves as a doorway to a bouquet of hope.
Nothing tosses out of equilibrium,
The mind can discern the seasons and the reasons behind them,
It has learned how to summon the elements to do its bidding,
It has discovered the entrance to the cosmos' room.
My mother journeys and thrives in the light of these truths,
Her wisdom stems from this stream of knowledge,
She flourishes in its vitality,
And she encourages me to draw from it well.
February 11, 2025.
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