as i stare in the empty streets
sitting in an alleyway
i ponder why only few people see me
though many people pass
and acknowledge i’m here
some of their hearts don’t agree
they see right through Peace
then, the other people
who actually care
they want the world
to stay safe in the watch
of me, Peace, known worldwide
to try hard to get through
the challenging phases
of life
whilst questioning all my eye can see
i feel clear
to try my hardest
so everyone can finally acknowledge
Me
It begins long before the pen touches the page,
in the quiet habit of noticing what others miss:
the amber morning streaming
through slatted blinds,
the heron lifting up from golden water.
To live this way is not to speak in rhyme,
But to breathe, to watch,
To listen for the rhythm.
It is the tea kettle whistling its low hymn,
Flour dusted across the counter,
The deliberate pace of walking slow enough
To hear what silence carries when it leaves.
You learn that nothing is too small to keep:
A river rock worn smooth by tide,
The wild fire of an evening sky,
The grief you thought would crush you into dirt.
Writing is only the light you bring back.
The poem itself was the breathing,
The wide eyes, the steady pulse,
The courage to face the grain of living
And find in it
A reason to begin again.
As my body and soul take a rest,
Tired from work need to lie down is the best,
Though my room is little, it's my place of refuge,
Ready to plunge into deep slumber.
Many hardship I may face everyday,
At the end of the day my safe haven is waiting,
As peaceful as a sea,
This is where I belong, my shelter.
Problems that I may faced day by day,
The silence of the room is my sanctuary,
Focussing on how to solve right away,
So that my heart is free from being weary.
The sun casts red upon the myriad dead,
The heavens die, departing shadowed shades;
The bloody duty’s done, but what ahead?
For prosp'rous peace rests not on sharpened blades.
And "Cincinnatus!", some now cry, "Be king!
To lead in peace, as you have led in war!"
But this a thing no friend of Rome should bring,
For army rule is not what Rome is for.
O, well enough, I know how well to lead,
But in my shadow, how could roses grow?
My absence is the thing that Romans need,
For in the sun, shall Rome itself best know.
Let others sharpen wits, for good or harm,
I'll sharpen plows, upon my humble farm.
I am a true rebel- for I question
the words of my catholic rigid rules.
And will rise up to claim my self-expression,
keeping the parts that are like precious jewels.
Spiritual freedom is my obsession . . .
I do not want to be like the mindless ghouls.
Forces of desiring things creates aversion,
and pushing these things away creates diversion.
So, I let go of all useless craving
and let go of the resistance and fears.
Stop the beliefs like old etched engraving,
I hang from stars that seem a chandelier.
Don't obey all the catholic ravings,
but hold what I consider to be dear.
Through meditation my focus is unbroken,
and I can hear my spiritual voice spoken.
I turn away from any cult-like faith
throwing away all the rigid mindset.
Discard all the bible verses that saith,
to find my inner song- I press reset.
I will seek a journey to interfaith,
and hum to my internal clarinet.
I am placing all those old teachings on a shelf,
to begin an amazing journey to myself.
One's haven- a place where happiness sings;
true, comforting peace to all lives it brings,
as strolling in parks or feeding sweet birds.
But mine is the sanctuary of words.
The scenes in my mind direct them to come
to build an image or story, become
the tools that can shape, redress simple thought;
in capturing words, the best ones are sought.
This haven I seek, on fair or gray days,
immersed in the field of words that amaze.
Though battles are fierce, when each write is done,
sweet comfort rewards the word-war I won.
leaf
wind
motion
stirs silence
until stillness opens
something unsaid drifts through the air
I wish to die whilst I might slumber;
Let Old Age smooth my path away;
With no accounts remaining proper;
No innocent worlds in disarray;
And should a peace exist in vision;
Which legends, myths and cults do sow;
I hope with my true love reunion;
Or wait if they be yet to follow.
And yet, should my account be tainted;
And legends, myths and cults beware;
A journey to a depth recanted;
With restlessness as common fare;
And there alone in spite and fury;
No love to balm and bound my geist;
I wish regret for a life unruly;
No eternal angst to be my price.
So knowing not when I may exit;
Nor having sight to know what truths;
I wish this life devoid of conflict;
Where Nature smiles as balance rules.
For what then life if then not sharing;
To not see death as sweet release;
We are not human if not caring,
A mild and worthy life finds peace.
“Neither desire nor aversion
Meditation our immersion
Conditioned beliefs discarded
Hymns we hum are our own version”
After rain, the burnt paddock smells of iron.
Rusted wire hums along the boundary,
teaching the grass its old obedience.
All my life, I mistook such lines
for safety.
I do not have to follow.
My mind is a dry, hot wind
stirring the ash;
a frantic moth beating
against the unyielding wire.
It is the sudden clawing of a frightened animal,
the bitter, ancient lure of being right,
the tide that pulls the old hymns from my throat.
I do not have to follow.
Instead, cold rain enters the ash-dark soil.
The run-off clears, stripping the blackened crust
until desire and aversion
loosen their old grip.
A single grey thrush resumes its quiet call,
and what was rigid loosens into breath,
unbound from the boundary I carried within.
I do not have to follow.
I walk away from the rusted wire,
humming no song I was given—
only the rain’s small rhythm
finding its way through me.
How lustrous the first of morning
When my river spreads her brocade
Laced tassels weave through daylight's ring--
As she swivels on dappled qlade:
While midstream, tree tops decorate
This harbor lined with tulips red;
In vivid inlays quite ornate
Till birdsong explodes... overhead.
Imbued by some godly delight
My bouyant musings shine aloft--
That l, in gentle hum of night
Lay half- awake ... on grasses, soft.
Beguiled by waves streaming freely,
Her wisp of haven breathes in me.
the flow of time impacts us not
in as that we pursue no goal
we continue at a slow trot
allowing God to guide our role
Neither desire nor aversion
Meditation our immersion
Conditioned beliefs discarded
Hymns we hum are our own version.
Beyond the pull of grief or passion
Stillness becomes our single fashion
Old dogmas fade to illusory smoke
Thought refined in silent action
The quiet heart where truth resides
We drift beyond the shifting tides
Unbound by dogma, free from fear
Pure freedom where the self decides
No empty gods to now appease
No shadows crawling on their knees
The mind awakes to raw design
Unshackled from ancient decrees
We weave the light from inner flame
No longer playing in their game
Our sacred origin revealed
A holy song without a name
The sun sets in soulful silence,
Its blissful beauty paints pearlescent sky,
Lovely light spreads soft its peace,
Like learned Rumi ruminating;
Poets praise sighing Sol,
The welkin wonder soothes senses ~
A cool cause to glorify God.
(Note: "learned" is counted as 2 syllables.
It's wrongly mentioned as 1 syllable in www.howmanysyllables.com)
Through lenses cold and ground from mountain glass,
We watched the dying worlds of iron pass.
For generations, every spark we found
Was tethered to a bleeding, broken ground—
The sudden flash of silo doors undone,
The brief, horrific birthing of a sun,
Then ash that drifted like a heavy shroud
To lock a planet in a toxic cloud.
We turned our mirrors to the northern sky,
Expecting just another world to die,
To see Vaeloria’s final signature
Be etched in fire, black and premature.
We braced for the familiar, sudden glare
Of empires burning down their final air.
But what we found across the cosmic deep
Was not the final, static-riddled sleep.
The planet did not burn; it started glowing,
A quiet, silver respiration growing,
As if a willow made of starlight grew
And drank the poison till the sky turned blue.
No high radiation tore the night,
But pulses of a deep, organic light.
A lonely mind had stitched the broken spheres,
And washed away a century of fears.
We leaned into our sights, amazed to see
A world redeemed by a single tree.
She sits there perfectly serene.
Her heart is at peace.
Her soul basks in harmony.
She soaks up the sun divinely blissful.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
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