Pattern baldness depends on genetics.
It’s a matter, for some, of aesthetics.
Since toupees replace hair,
it would seem to me fair
if we thought of toupees as prosthetics!
On the other hand, some men instead
will embrace fate, and not filled with dread,
they swallow their pride
and take things in stride
when they shave every hair off their head.
Some smart men have set high the bar.
Michael Jordan’s come very far.
Charisma we see
in men who can be
like a Dwayne “The Rock” superstar.
Being follicly challenged won’t do
if when called “Mr. Clean,” you feel blue.
If you hate when they call
you Kojak or Cue Ball,
then a hair transplant might be for you!
Written: July 20, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Sara Kendrick
**************
Aged roots are the genesis of the river's wind,
Fallen leaves, a spectral potpourri design.
Cold celestial course traced by tides behind,
A gentle breeze swirls the silver origami line.
Wistful choir zithers revive the mossy floor,
Hum in zephyr, a bucolic rhapsody spree.
Tides come back to batter the rocky shore,
Forest floor, unfurled ferns—green filigree.
Pinecone packs its spirals deep and tight,
A sequence written before time began.
We wake to follow tracks of winter's sight,
And employ the wild pattern for a plan.
I thought I cracked the code
Of my wife’s mood swings mode.
Boy, was I in the dark
Of hormonal hallmark.
Hot and cold then hot again,
Warm and passionate but then,
Cranky, hungry on the spot,
Cold as ice then scorching hot!
On a diet? Heart of gold!
Gained a few? Hot veers to cold.
I failed to crack the code
Of manic mood swings mode.
I know now, the latter
Not a pattern matter.
July 18, 2026
The pattern maker measures his guest
neck, shoulders chest, and breast,
arms, back, wrist, waist, hips,
pivots for darts on a block bodice
drafts designer dupe requested
a choice rose-beige mini is invested
on paper made of parchment
a muslin fabric fit first garment
The dressmaker sews the formal
zig zags seam ends, snips as normal
finishing floral, attaching appliques,
the courtier knock off is complete
I get out the chips and merlot
It’s time for the fashion show
That sweet
Love letter
Does treat
Us better,
Even now.
Well, how?
Its strength
Has length;
O, none can
Ever fathom
Love human
From bottom.
Endless amour
Is our armour.
I know, to me, you’ll always remain perfect;
Although my human heart’s full of defect,
My visage, for your love, will my love reflect.
I collect antique embroidery pattern
a handiwork through generations
On yellowed paper
with a few tears and edge wear
A project I pick up when time is quiet
each stitch for relaxation
Grandma’s pattern renewed
- embroidered in monochrome blue
He realised his big mistake:
to touch the pattern on the snake...
Under the tree's canopy,
I see dappled shadows,
Light dancing in utter glee,
Shafts shifting in shine-shows!
In the sky, I watch rainbow's
Shimmering seven hues,
And they gleam in glowing pose,
Colouring my world-views!
At night, I find the full moon
Hiding behind the clouds,
Sparkling with the stars, light's strewn
Across the darkened shrouds.
shape shifting clouds form
rolling across dark blue sky
patterns multiple
Cloud Patterns
white peaceful patterns
float lazily overhead
I’m lost in my thoughts
P=People live their life one day,
A=After the other.
T=Tests come in different shapes and sizes.
T=Today will be gone soon,
E=Emerging a new day of challenges.
R=Ready to run the race to the end,
N=Never giving up, Amen.
Header note:
Pattern Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
Submission: July 14, 2026
Title: The Pattern of Hope
THE PATTERN OF HOPE
With needle and hope she sewed one piece of wool,
And from the bunting, star and stripe were born.
Red, white, cut by candlelight and careful pull,
A circle of thirteen, each by one snip worn.
Betsy, widow of courage, turned cloth to free,
Fed her family with hands that would not tire.
She made a nation’s pattern from nothing — see?
A flag of love stitched out of need and fire.
Now Sara cuts for daughters, just the same,
With very little money, but a heart of light.
Two women, different years, but one true name:
Courage that stitches darkness into bright.
From Betsy’s flag to Sara’s hem to me —
One needle, one pattern, sets our spirits free.
A murmur beneath the pattern,
a hairline fracture in certainty
no one expected to see.
A sound without a cause,
a tiny flicker of light.
A shadow untethered by reason,
freed from explanation.
Sometimes the smallest crack
in the pattern let's light
slip through to reshape what we know.
We are taught to ignore the unfamiliar,
to dismiss whatever is strange and untamed.
The peculiar, the unsettling
becomes another fault to repair.
We moor ourselves to reason.
Insisting every mystery
must surrender to an explanation.
Yet, many great discoveries began
with someone pausing, noticing,
when dismissal looked away.
every day we live we are a weave in that pattern
chicken pecks kernel
as I peck photo button
in same pattern
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