It was not one thing—
not a single blade of thought
but a field of them,
thin, dry, whispering
against each other in the wind of my mind.
Morning came like a bill I could not pay.
Light pressed its hand to my face
and I turned from it,
as if the sun itself had asked too much of me.
My body—
this animal I have carried for years—
lay down in the middle of the day
as though struck,
as though it had run too far
without water.
I could name the losses
like bones in an X-ray—
each one bright,
each one undeniable—
but naming did not lessen them.
It only proved they were there.
The rooms were filled with ordinary objects—
a glass, a chair, a door half-open—
and each one seemed to say:
you must go on,
you must go on,
you must go on.
I did not want to stay.
That is the simplest truth.
But something—
not hope, not even strength—
something smaller,
a thread, a tendon, a quiet refusal
deep in the muscle of being—
held.
So I left.
Not because the world softened,
not because the pain spoke kindly,
but because somewhere in me
there was still a witness
who would not leave my body behind.
I am hot, cold, joyful, sad
I feel well, sick, sullen, mad
Depending who I am with, I am good or bad
I am grumpy, excited, eager too
These feelings come in bulk; maybe I’m blue?
I’m thirteen years old, so I have more than a few.
The night pressed in with a velvet hand,
I was so tired, you’d understand.
All day the world had sung its song,
But not for me—I did not belong.
The streets were lit, the windows warm,
Yet none could shield me from the storm.
I wore my smile like Sharon's borrowed dress,
While hollow winds moved through my chest.
I thought of spring, I thought of rain,
Of all I loved that could not remain.
There was no anger, only release,
A soft surrender, a will toward peace.
I let the darkness close me in,
It felt like love beneath my skin.
Do not weep, for I am free—sigh,
The world was never meant for me.
They sang to stars, to flowers pale with dew,
To hearts that bled beneath the waning moon;
Yet every song they wove from sorrow grew,
Each note a dirge, each rhyme a fading tune.
The world too heavy, pressing on their soul's,
A crown of thorns their tender temples bore;
Love fled like whispers, leaving them to hold,
And silence reigned where song had dwelt before.
Oh, cruel muse, who blessed them with your fire,
Yet cursed their fragile hearts with too much pain,
You led them, blind, to cliffs of dark desire,
And cast them down in seas of endless rain.
In lonely nights, they felt the stars grow cold,
No voice to soothe the ache of barren skies,
The ink that spilled their griefs a tale retold
Of lives unlit, consumed by unseen love.
Yet still their words endure, though they are gone,
A burning flame no tempest can erase.
Through death, they live—each verse, a tender dawn,
Each line a kiss of beauty's fleeting grace.
Why did they fall? Perhaps to teach us this:
A poet's soul must brave the abyssal deep,
To find the truth in love’s elusive kiss,
And wake the world from its eternal sleep.
Insanely bad mood
Snippy and snarling
He is four-years-old
Fighting his nap time
Baby sitter folds
He falls asleep
at six o’clock
when parents come
to take him home
grouchy boy
cannot eat
wants his bed
routine
broken
sad
In stanzas rich with life's profound embrace,
Sharon Olds wove words, a poetic grace.
Verses danced, a vibrant, candid stream,
Her pen a beacon, in reality's dream.
Through life's tapestry, her verses told,
Of love's ardor, and stories bold.
Yet, time's relentless, inevitable tide,
Embraced her gently, where poets bide.
In the quiet realm where shadows play,
Sharon's ink echoes, an eternal display.
Her legacy, a testament to art's breath,
In life and death, she conquered death.
Removing the planes that hit the towers ~ censors no longer cower
*Image of Conhece-te a ti mesmo (Know thyself) by Pinterest.
Frisky as Two-Year-Olds
HIM: Anything unputdownable?
HER: Yes, and you?
HIM: Lucky, we're here, we'll continue indoors ... and leave the book!
HER: Don't forget the kids, I'll carry Puddy-Tat upstairs ...
HIM: I'll persuade Pup-Tart outside.
HER: Meet you at the rendezvous!
2022 July 25
*3rd Place*
Short verse inspired by pictures
~~Lisa YY: Judged 2022 August 09
*PS Grammar; 40 words exact
Prince George is there at Wimbledon,
Between his folks, first row.
They’re sitting in the Royal Box
With hours left to go.
In suit and tie, though 8 years old,
He’s very well behaved,
Remaining quite expressionless
While both his parents waved.
I’m watching from the living room,
My grandson, 8, close by.
He paid attention for a while
In shorts and tee (no tie).
He’s playing chess with Grandpa now
But asks me for the score.
Unlike Prince George, he can admit
The game (to him’s) a bore.
In kindergarten we were the little dollies
Carried around by our classmates all day
Until we started to like it
My happy twin and I
Naturally prissy teacher tried to stop it
But they loved us ever much our classmates
We were popular that first week of school
Everyone wanted to play with the twins
Many had never seen the like
We were identical
I remember my curly head swelled up a bit
We both thought we were the best in the class
Our mother tried to take us down a peg or two
But Daddy thought it was hilarious
I still remember this fondly
I loved kindergarten!
The year we got carried around and loved a lot!
The best year of my life in many ways.
Embodied
By David J Walker
As if I were a Ford or Chevy
Or an Old’s 88
Classified by year and make and
Model, registered and taxed and
Licensed with the local government
A product of an assembly line from the
American Big 3 proudly adorned with
Airplane like fins and flashy chrome bumpers
Popular in my generation
Parts interchangeable with the few
That are still truly original but more likely
Remanufactured to my specific
Specifications
Some admire the stressed and aged look
That comes naturally with the milage
Others like us restored down to the
Last detail
Keeping us in a garage, taking us
Out on sunny weekends, showing us off
At nostalgia shows playing the music we
Can sing to.
I used to name my cars as if they had a soul
I remember them now as I pass a junkyards
And wrecking yard where they disassembled,
Used parts sold and the rest smashed into a
Coffin like metallic wafer, the sent off to the
Recycler.
Untold laughter shaking her loudly
Diabolical and ruthless
Ninety-year-old’s privilege
Fooling almost no one
Delighting her cat
Smirking with mirth
Partner in
Friendship
Crime
We hid in the cottonwood tree’s magic treehouse.
Spying on our neighbors.
Laughter rang out occasionally from the windows of some of their houses.
We clutched our stomachs and laughed.
Mr. Pete gave his wife a big hug at their house.
We all went, Oh, yucky!
We were eleven, and loved the height of our tree mansion.
Feeling like detectives, or FBI agents.
Eleven is such a magical time.
We used to haul all kinds of pillows up there.
It was my reading nook. On reading days, I was
off with pirates, or Pippi Longstocking, and we
were on the sea, which I had never seen
in real life,
but imagined
was quite
wonderful.
You can never get 11
back, so please enjoy it!
Bright sun, puffy clouds , pinky fluffy candy floss,
Rolling on the fields lined with grassy, grassy green moss.
She had turned three last June and proud, oh my
She was the apple of her daddy's eye
Little girls don't come prettier than she
Seemed like her future was bright as could be
Daddy bragged to all those who would listen
Of her blue eyes and hair that would glisten
He talked of her brain and how she was smart
And he couldn't wait for her school to start
But just at the time things were going well
His attention shifted and darkness fell
He read aloud for her mother to hear
Of a race being held that seemed quite near
She felt she might faint, if the truth be told
The race was only for a three year old!
Why, he seemed possessd as he read and read
Citing all their names as if she were dead
He talked of how fast these three year olds were
And which might win - but never mentioned her
She wondered whether she could learn to run
And give up the times she just spent on fun
She sure didn't know where Kentucky was
Or in a Derby what a runner does
Well, if it pleased her daddy she would try -
Then she thought it over, started to cry
6/24/2017
For contest Three Year Olds Thoughts for Brenda Chiri
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