I was sitting in sub-zero temperatures in the Northern Arctic
As one does when you're a Swedish spy
Caught between conflicting ethical codes...
Stuck in my tent I stumbled upon a poem
Pondering the experience of Hot British Tea.
The poem was long and decorous with adjectives.
My lips were stuck and frosted together in parts
As I murmured along with teeth chattering
With the rhythm of an African cheetah.
Though the words buttered into my soul.
"Steep," "simmering," "piping," and "warming"
Warmed my innards and radiated outward,
The imagination muscling forth the reality.
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
Crikey. Long-ranged silencers. I've been found.
(Hungarians.)
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
Auburn Autumn with joyous jasmine
Attractive aroma : Supreme ! Superfine.
Breeze blows to reminisce, remind !
Dormant desires are to mesmerize mind.
Nausea nostalgia
of old memories murmured to glow
My father's favourite sweet scent flowed
In seven years, pause your nightly steps
And linger on the threshold for a glance
Upon his face now aged from first romance
And dream of dorm room secrets poorly kept.
The vision of a gilded lower hall,
Rejected kisses, chased to second dates,
Your secrets whispered with the evening’s grace,
His hazel eyes transmuted gold that fall.
Remember how to love him once again
In quiet murmured sheets with rainy tea
And by exchanging souls in breathes of sleep
Until there is no change from now to then.
Night gathered around me~
comforting me like a soft shawl
draped upon my shoulders.
I felt you near in the quiet vibrations
between stars.
A single star quivered,
and the air folded around your memory.
It moved toward me tenderly,
like a hand brushing across time.
I lifted my face,
and the heavens inclined~
a slow, luminous gesture
from whatever realm shelters you now.
In that fragile moment,
the veil loosened.
I saw not your form,
but your presence~
bright, unbound,
woven through the night like breath.
And the darkness murmured:
Nothing loved is ever lost.
It simply learns
a gentler, more radiant way
to stay.
Two friends went on a weeklong tour
Soon on bed, one began to snore
The other sat up irate.
He began cursing his fate.
He murmured “What an awful bore!”
With his friend lying so close on bed
He thought, his sleep, he would have to shed
He wished to avert his doom
Told hotel boy- ‘get a room’
Leaving his friend, to next room he fled.
You're my luver, my dear, I tell you why-
Did you not listen to my heart twice,
Both its laughter and its murmured cry?
Did you not understand it all?
Even small requests?
Did you not soften all its painful, tedious sighs
Validating its calm and sometimes high?
With full, tender empathy blooming,
Shining upon the azure roof of the sky!
You touched my mouth open, happily,
Spreading songs, mostly bird-like.
old winds wander slow
through hollowed mountain paths,
carrying the murmured lore
of waters born before memory;
stone-faces lean inward, listening,
their ridges etched by centuries
of patient, moon-pale flow—
d
e
s
c
e
n
d
i
n
g
down the elder cliffs,
where every drop recalls
a vow whispered in the first dawn;
the pool below waits open,
its surface stirring like prophecy,
gathering each falling thread
into a circle older than names,
as if the earth itself remembers
how light once learned to move
Zoltar moved in quietly,
carried up the stairs by no one
I remember seeing.
At night, his gears murmured
through the thin apartment wall~
a soft metallic prayer
to whatever listens in the dark.
Occasionally,
I heard his cards shuffle themselves~
paper whispering secrets
it should not know.
Sometimes his lights flickered
under my doorframe,
as if he’s pacing,
as if he’s thinking.
One night,
he slid a fortune under my door:
The visitor arriving tomorrow
died twelve years ago.
Another one follows:
Your shadow will leave you
before the week ends.
At dawn, the hallway smelt
of burnt incense and cold metal.
His lights flickered wildly,
as if he’s arguing with something
I cannot see.
Then a final card appeared~
edges singed, letters warped:
Do not open the door
when you hear your own voice.
Art is doing.
Painting is for seeing.
Music is for hearing.
Poetry is for saying.
Cooking is for tasting.
Feeling is for touching.
But being is a stranger beast.
It is not self-expression.
It is self-discovery.
It is slow, gentle, unhurried,
timeless unfolding into becoming,
in a quietly murmured mantra to self:
Who is asking, and why?
Who is this presence, restless and tense,
yearning for acquiescence,
beckoning for acquaintance?
Being is a verb disguised
as a noun or two—
silence
existence,
omniscience,
a mystery in plain sight,
a listener,
ever inclusive,
and receptive—
an awareness listening to self.
The art of being is
to exist concurrently
as both the creator, and the creation,
sculptor and stone
painter and canvas
audience and song
recipe and meal
beat and heart
thought and mind
seeker and sought
question and answer
a spirit and a soul
present in tense,
yet timeless.
An enlightened
accompaniment
to itself.
“My dear,” I murmured
and pulled her into my arms.
lifting her off her feet…
She sizzled with insatiable desires,
Her lissome body melting
against mine like molten lava.
Lightening slashed across the sky
and the world trembled!
I have waited for you, My Love
through time
through dreams
through brief windows of time…
that’s as much a torture as a pleasure.
Come to me now.
I pulled her into my arms
and this time the kiss was ravenous,
Possessive;
When she pressed her body to mine,
I deepened the kiss…
and filled myself with her.
Her head spun
She reveled in the giddiness,
No one ever wanted her
Not like this,
Had ever touched her like this,
Needed her this badly.
Hot desire fired her blood
and made logic, reason, sanity
laughable things…
She had magic;
What did she need of reason?
~Prompt: Romanticism
~Sponsor: Seth Pina
A circle forms itself~
no one quite sure who started it,
yet everyone leaning in.
Voices braid and unbraid,
threads crossing, looping,
tugging at the edges of agreement.
One spark sets off another;
a silence shifts the room.
Even the shyest thought
finds a place to perch.
And somehow, without voting,
the group decides its rhythm~
a murmured tide,
a shared tilt of attention,
a small constellation
briefly holding shape
before drifting on.
The bliss is real as I sink into each bite
Arterial consequences I won't consider tonight
Recipe easy: just eggs, cream and sugar
Though perfection with added nutmeg and butter
A touch of vanilla - oh, I'm in lust!
Double the portion size - oh yes I must!
Egg custard is the unglamorous name
Custard me again and again and again
Reaching for more, I don't know how to stop
Eggsactly - my craving is over the top
Mmm murmured as I'm finally sated
A dessert I conclude is very highly rated
Sleep, my son,
hush, hush, little one.
Your father's heart hums for you,
your mother's heart longs for you.
It’s eventide;
darkness wraps the world in black velvet,
yet the moon shines gloriously,
and the stars weave a lullaby,
all for you, my son.
I cherish you, boy.
Your worth surpasses the rarest emeralds;
your laughter stitches my frail soul,
and your sleeping face undoes me.
You and I—
we are of the same essence,
the same murmured wish to the heavens.
You are the yearning of my old soul,
the answer to dreams whispered in silence.
And I love you—
beyond what any words can say.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The city is a beehive~
hexagons stacked,
each buzzing with activity
morning, noon, and night.
Streets: wax-thin, sticky with footsteps.
Buildings: golden, leaning into each other,
their windows humming with fluorescence.
Every corner is a chamber~
workers trailing in, workers trailing out,
carrying briefcases instead of pollen.
The queen? She’s a rumor~
a shadow in the penthouse,
counting her hexagons,
her kingdom of glass.
And the honey?
Oh, the honey is the noise~
the honk and clatter,
the murmured deals,
the laughter pooling
in elevators,
thick as syrup.
We are all bees here,
dizzy with purpose,
lost in the comb.
poem originally written for and submitted to Ultramarine Literary Review for its urbanity contest, Febrary 21, 2026.
Shattered besides her
He sat beside her crib,
trying hard not to break down,
trembling like foliage in a whirlwind.
His hands cradled his head,
heavy with tears cascading like a spring.
Desperately, he willed her to stay awake,
fearing that if her eyes closed,
she might be taken away from him.
She was his world,
his beacon of hope,
his anchor amidst a raging tempest.
He could not forgive God.
"Why play dice with my daughter’s life?"
he murmured into the vast void.
"Take me instead,"
his prayer consumed by silence,
as the heavens remained quiet,
as they always are.
When her breath stalled,
and the hospital machines screamed
darkness rose like a tide and devoured him.
The delicate thread tethering his hope snapped,
and the world crumbled around him,
he died the same day
his spirit shattering alongside hers.
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