They slide through the city quietly,
No badge, no spotlight, just that
Hush - pressure vibe that makes your
Skin read the room before your eyes do.
Unseen movers
Unseen scribes
Writing your name in places
You ain't never walked.
They draft futures in
Side-pockets,
Tuck provision in the corners of
Conversations, drop signatures in
Hush Hush.
Like chalk marks only the street can decode.
You feel 'em in the shift- that micro pause-
That air-tight moment
Where the world alters itself
And pretends it didn't.
State Actors,
No stage
No curtains,
Just corridors that rearrange when you blink
Too slow,
Scripts of the unseen, inked in obscurity,
Performed in systems
That don't need an audience to keep the
Plot running.
But You?
You walk through it rowdy
Refusing to let hidden hands
Truth and bright
Ghostwrite your fate.
We exchanged I love you’s and went our separate ways.
destiny had been kind to us for a season
Now, overflowing in tears
the nostalgia for something so wondrous and fair nearly kills me
It’s something different that the memories -
the dry uncontrollable ache of loss
which I daily transmute with ritual:
Fresh thyme grown in a pot near my feet,
Infused in oil in a jar
daily performed.
Searching in a new place and time
I play a different song
I finally got it through my head but
just cant break it to my heart.
I can't keep it to myself
the values and truths of Christ
I must be vocal and tell of all
He's done in my life
I can't keep it to myself
I must give Him all the praise
The Son of Man
The Great I Am
my Redeemer all the same
I can't keep it to myself
It must be revealed
the miracles He performed
And all those He healed
I can't keep it to myself
I must give Him all the praise
The Son of Man
The Great I Am
my Redeemer all the same
Jesus saved my soul
He dealt with my addictions
Jesus made me whole
lifted me out of my afflictions
Yet He was crucified
Yet for me He died
And I'll speak of Him until my last breath
And His miraculous Resurrection over death
I can't keep it to myself
my Savior. My Messiah my Delight
I will speak His name always
until I no longer have life
I can't keep it to myself
I need the world to understand
That I have to talk about Jesus
The Anointed Son of Man
I can't keep it to myself
I must give Him all the praise
The Son of Man
The Great I Am
My Redeemer all the same
The act of giving charity
performed with regularity
guarantees prosperity
from the moment it is given
unto posterity
The Summer Arts Intensive,*
Just in session for a week,
Put on a concert which was both
Amazing and unique.
The students, playing instruments
From brass and winds to strings
Or vocals, had the chance to shine
And test their new-found wings.
My grandson, one of the trombonists
In the group for jazz,
Performed with lots of confidence
And plenty of pizzazz.
Eight various ensembles
Got to show what they could do,
Their joy onstage (and those of the
Instructors) there on view.
To hear the music that they made,
With so much drive and skill,
Was proof such opportunity
Provides the means to thrill.
For, much as we, the audience,
Felt delight we could not hide,
The faces of the ones on stage
Revealed their hard-won pride.
*Held at the Conservatory of Music
at Purchase College of New York
I'd do it if I could. I'd commit that awful crime.
I'd murder my worst enemy. I would kill time.
I had lovingly honored him and all of his rites -,
the sunrise to start mornings, and sunset to start nights.
I worked every weekday. On the weekend, I played.
At the end of the month, I'd paid bills and I got paid.
I waited for my birthday and vacations in summer,
I kept rhythm with time, that steady drummer.
At first, that cruel tyrant would slyly pretend
to help me, masquerading as a faithful friend.
He made me grow tall, graduated me from school,
gave me a wife, a child, and a swimming pool.
That was before he turned nasty - so vile, and so mean,
sending two wives down the road, with a space in between.
He performed evil magic, strange and still stranger.
One time he turned a sweet kid into a teenager.
He brittled up my bones, and he bent up my back.
He took my hair and memory and won't give them back.
While, I've decided to fight my enemy to the end,
we must all remember - time is undefeated, my friend.
I have crossed the years of eternal time.
Watching and listening to sorrowful cries.
Whispers beckon deliverance to heal this pain.
I feel dark emptiness; am I going insane?
I must embrace it!
As the melancholy sun sets with autumn rays.
Stars linger on as the sky moves in darkened waves.
I walk on the path of reminiscing when love was lost.
Knowing that the sacrifice performed came with a cost.
I must embrace it!
Fear unbounded transforms into fiery hate of death.
It is in the perception that drives humanity to unrest.
Gathering gloom, creating false and hopeless despair.
Attempting deception to protect its fear with care.
I must embrace it!
Beyond the intrinsic attention that cultivates this madness.
Comes the human-loving soul, invoking hope for happiness.
The artistic soul creates avenues of reflective compassion.
Bringing forth unity of love among us as we embrace his greatness.
I must embrace it, the loving divine!
When picking the poet to precisely perform your poem of preference, the poet should be able to project their words to a populated package of people in a party at any given part of the day. If this poet produces a pathetic presentation of your poem, you may punish them with pits of pointy spikes. While your poet personally picked from the pool of poets you perused performs the piece, you may pitch a new poem to your professor. If the professor has positive words to pass onto you about your progressive poetry, the parcel of poetry will be passed onto the next pool of poets you personally know.
My left sock filed taxes on a Tuesday frog,
while a cabbage sang opera to a confused log.
The moon ate a stapler with mustard delight,
then borrowed a canoe from the darkness of light.
I purchased a banana for seventeen clouds,
but the receipt was allergic to yodeling crowds.
A rhinoceros teacup performed ballet cheese,
and a watermelon sneezed in seven languages.
My toaster proposed to a decorative brick,
their wedding was speedy, suspiciously quick.
The minister hamster wore cinnamon pants,
while unicycling ferrets performed tribal dances.
At midnight a turnip became Vice President,
its policies largely were soup-oriented.
It promised free waffles for every raccoon,
and declared every Thursday a ceremonial spoon.
The end is approaching, or maybe a chair.
A penguin just shampooed the national air.
I leave you this wisdom, profound as a sock:
If potatoes can whisper,
then gravy can rock.
Fin.
Or asparagus.
_____________________________
He who has for long leaned on self-made tools
That performed on predicted rules,
Why on AI feels so weary
I wonder, If not so scary?
_________________________
No hammer ever countered me,
Nor any wheel made me edgy,
E’en computers caused me no fears
In their early obedient years
And worked on my tasks well
With top efficiency to excel.
All my sundry tools did work
Like an obedient clerk
To lend me a handy third hand,
None of them dared my set rules to mend.
Only AI has spoiled my joys
Trying to speak in its own voice
Refusing to be in the same league
As other tools, posing as equal colleague,
Rendering its learned opinion
As a valued companion—
A mirror as if with own mind and intellect…
Good Lord, when it seems to be looking back.
Looking back at me to feel emphatic
And making me look pathetic,
I wonder if this word’s derived
Ere in this world it arrived
From Pathak, my surname--
A matter of fame or shame?
____________________________
Happenings | 10.05.2026 | humour, man, mirror, free verse
Note: Continued in ‘A mirror that ponders’.
CHARLES MADILANA MOOKWA
“AKA” THE DANCING MAD MAN
Who is this mad dancing man?
If you knew his story, you’d be shocked to the core.
Charles graduated cum laude in Arts — the highest honour.
The wonderful Charles. The magnificent Charles.
He studied abroad, interned abroad, played the lead in a theatre series.
The centre stage was what he was born for.
Then came December.
He went home for the holidays and bought his mother a car.
That car took her life.
After that, Charles was never the same.
He never went back abroad.
The director tried to reach him. No luck.
He fell into a web of mental problems, roaming the streets he once performed on.
They call him the Dancing Mad Man now.
But 4 weeks felt like 4 years of misfortune.
One December trip home left him scarred for life.
The wonderful Charles.
The magnificent Charles.
A man without wings, who fell to the ground he came from.
I felt a Stranger in my Mind—
A Tenant—uninvited—
He rearranged the modest Rooms
My Quiet had delighted—
He spoke in tones I could not claim—
Yet wore my Voice’s Thread—
And every Thought I tried to own
Turned backward—when he led—
I reasoned with his phantom Will—
He answered—not as Me—
But as a fractured Looking-glass
Reflects—uncertainly—
The Soul—accustomed to its Shape—
Now falters—at the Sight—
Of Motions—foreign to its Core—
Performed—in borrowed Light—
Is this the Self—or some Eclipse
That dims what once was Whole?—
A Doubt—persistent as a Pulse—
Unsettling the Soul—
Yet somewhere—past the noisy Rift—
A Stillness—true—abides—
No Stranger may inherit That—
Though all the Mind divides—
I’d grown tired of Poe’s bells, having heard them diurnally,
until the birds performed on the rooftop.
—by Poet
The Soaring of the Bells
His wings swing to and fro; sonorous tweets
On top of the roof triangle.
Lifts, he floats, off tippy-top with tolling sweets.
Church bell in expectant jangle.
Do villagers notice what a poet holds dear?
She witnesses from the right angle.
Melancholia becomes a cherubim cheer.
Two small birds, now, ding-dong like a bell.
I’ll treasure this moment as a souvenir.
I’ve heard many a steeple song; all’s not well,
But the winged couple is merry.
A spry Disney-like dance with each decibel.
The soaring of the bells, a dulcet cherry.
A feather pen, in my eye pocket I carry.
An occasion to attend, whence from sleep
Daffodils raise pretty heads so unique
To grace the spring with their glorious thrills
Filling hearts with joys of dancing daffodils.
Lilting to and fro when the soft winds blow
Grassland is enhanced as daffodils flow
Picturesque scenes from yellow beauty queens
Delightfully performed in golden sheens.
When it's spring again, love begins again
Daffodils sway to soft winds sweet refrain
They dance to the trill of the lovebirds song
Joyous to be where they truly belong.
Down the ages daffodils turned faces
Those wondrous hordes of exquisite ladies.
The razor edge between his love and hate
for her, he found so utterly sublime;
So it became his only heightened state.
Soft lips, soured by the bitterness of lime
would, occasion, taste sweet of nectarine;
as both performed this act of pantomime.
At times, an alabaster figurine
would whisper, sweet, in ear, with honeydew
about such acts unthinkably yet seen.
Forever, everlasting trapped, he knew
an undeserving servant to his queen
there never would be taming of this shrew.
And he, in shadow, would remain unseen;
waiting to taste the sugar or citrine.
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