From behind velvet,
curtains drawn,
I peer with,
a glowing faculty,
of sentient,
embryonic paradox,
at entranced,
visual vine creeper,
that tiptoe cagey,
post dawn revealed,
picturesque glimpses,
stickler for the blind,
who treat with,
scorn dumbfound,
paradisal plinths,
metaphors for,
mountain tower apex,
or ground level placard,
to undulating urban,
tracts lavish,
where cerulean sky,
and town gossamer
mesh
The radio towers died at noon, the screens went blank and cold,
And static ceased to whisper of the empires bought and sold.
Down in the deep concrete redoubts, where millions gasped for air,
The ordinary citizens were stripped of their despair.
But in its place came something vast, a terrible, clean weight—
The absolute, unyielding hush that settled at the gate.
For thirty days no leader spoke, no siren pierced the dark,
The automated generators left a silent spark.
Men stared into their calloused hands, unable to recall
The frantic noise that used to drive their backs against the wall.
The silence was a physical thing, a pressure in the ear,
That forced the crowded bunker-rooms to face their oldest fear.
Yet by the third long, wordless week, the madness turned to rest,
As heartbeat matched to heartbeat in the quiet of the chest.
They learned to read the shifts of light, the breathing of the crowd,
And found a stranger, softer tongue where nothing was allowed.
Before the silver wood reached down to claim the planet's lease,
The bunker citizens survived the suffocating peace.
Like a morning after
But with a new born now in tow
The euphoria of birth’s endorphins
Not yet downed by postpartum blues.
Forget the labor unions
And their favored status this holiday
This is really a national holiday
About women, and what they are best at
And indispensable for
Children!
Mother’s Day is great of course
As a Hallmark celebration
But Labor Day is equally about mothers
But because of what mothers
Are actually mothers of
Children!
Happy post Labor Day everyone
Because we are all someone’s child.
(9/8/26)
A culture is sustained by its traditions
And its quality is known by the fruits
Of those traditions.
We live in a time of change
When tradition is challenged and discarded
Simply for being traditional.
We don’t know what will replace it
We just want “hope and change”
With blind faith it’ll be better.
But that’s not the way civilizations are built
That is how they are destroyed.
When the bottom falls out
Morals are abandoned
Values are reversed
The baby is thrown out
And the old dirty bathwater consumed
As if nectar.
Then drunk on delusion
The revelers cry
When in the morning
The large, shiny Trojan Horse is empty
And it’s clear their life will never be the same.
(8/30/26)
Write a poem you think it is good
post it as you know you should
No one seems to like it at all
for so few read it that poem falls
down down to the ho hums
you read it again not that dumb
But so it goes keep it real
A poem you are uncertain of
haven't post it because
It just to you kinda bad
no one will see it go ahead
post it and numbers you never seen
compliments given for this thing
For you the poem can't feel
but on Poetry Soup liked a great deal
Don't quit write more and more
a poem is something you are never sure
If you like it while no one else does
still it's yours, later on it could get some love
You write poetry because you do
no matter what you are sharing you.
When popping a letter in the post
before you lick it and stick it
consider all the trees which would go
to grow a bigger and better thicket
if we don't wait it's not too late
what with black rain and red tides
while fossils fuel our vehicles
petroleum product-propelled rides
turn a new leaf is my belief
as going green keeps this planet blue
Shank's pony makes all the sense in the world
it's quite the right thing to do
His last post;
A picture from a hospital bed.
He'd been here before and was granted a reprieve,
But,the incurable disease has returned ,and like a dog with a bone, isnt letting go.
He'd been down and almost counted out before,
To seven, eight and rose again at nine .
But this time the final bell rang at ten.
His voice of empathy and reason, gone forever.
It was his last post.
Steam vapors rising
asphalt emits acrid scent
sunshine clears the air.
“Post Pep Comics”
In this time,
there are no children -
we refer to them as the 'undead'.
The young watch on
while their gods war on, it’s all televised,
committing abominable atrocities, war crimes.
Like ancient souls held in the palms
of the war machine they watch on
like zombies, vacant things
scrolling, weighing their relevance
against those dressed in designer ozempic scales, while worlds away
the third-class child attends their lessons in starvation,
surviving death and bullets
trafficked and war torn, raped and
psychologically taken,
click bait;
bleeding into the small tight margins
of Western comics where the Eagle always wins.
Archie and Jughead dispense their puerile rules,
rating us like commodities, stocks that rise and fall;
it’s all entertainment
after all.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
Complaining is now open, we can make it easy and post it.
Complaints can be viewed and move like the wind for all to see and comment.
Complaining is easy now, it can move and gain a crowd, it can get opposition, it can grow and gain a reputation.
Complaining can help us learn, see others views, make us change our minds, and move to a different point of view.
Complaining can be useful it can make us become a better person and change for the good, making others change and make all of our life become super cool.
So do not be afraid, complain, learn, and take part in learning how to make our life better and better every day.
Lifting prayer to God, today and always.
bombs and fray is a clear example of used blab blab garbage post
After my children, I blended into a new being
Mommy, someone selfless and giving
A person who forgot what hobbies and friends were
I threw myself into their lives, as if my life depended upon it
as if I did not have a life at all, really
the only value I saw in me was through them
But my children grew up, moved away, started families
I had lots of extra time on my hands; what to do with it?
My granddaughter coaxed me into painting
I loved that; ran with it as if I was on fire
my enthusiasm for that rarely waned
After it did I remembered that I used to write
I picked up a pen, and began writing stories and poems
Sixteen hundred paintings and 34, 000 poems later
I remember there was a me
before my children came
and she is back.
Married in haste
You would repent at pleasure
Beaded in baste
Distance that bent off leisure
Marriage tends of delay
You got a pride of preference
That breezes out compliments of your survey
Curved out gains that nullify your deterrence
A podium medal now pending,
honourable mention of sorts,
or another NA in a contest,
NA-DIR of a writer’s naive expectation
.
regard thuh write uv mine, "stalk'd by ephialtes", well; "ephialtes {ef-ee-al-teez} is a
mythological incubus that, incites nightmarez...so now y'all can tramp back and in-
jest it's think'd ') i think.
it's not a spooky write either...there'z actually a moral to my
think this time... ") ...p.s....yeah, it's thuh terse write, yet, you may spend more time
realizing mine dramatic likewise thank'n yourself for reading "stalk'd by ephialtes" .
who lovez y'all...i'll tell yuh soon ')
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