The elder abuse of opening California up again without legal authorization
Auctioneering wisdoms residue
Trampling the vulnerable people whom are ignored with indifferent forces of silence and power of silencing the country whilst pursuing criminal neglect of office, for war profit.
Consumptives are littered in ridicule by the middle class work force vote.
Aged, wetherbeaten.
Repainted.
Aged, wetherbeaten.
Six fence panels
Next to a spotted grey post.
Right, right, wrong, right, wrong, wrong.
Split asunder,
Now siblings, they stand.
Nailed shoulder to shoulder
Touching this postal stamp shaped just like a sponge
How many more of these stamps would be launched
The beautiful colors and the humor of animation
Cheering up a heart through this line of communication
The hues being used could moisten the stamp
Cute little stamps to use by those in summer camp
It has to be an honor to be featured on a stamp by USPS
SpongeBob swimming through the post office is the best
There was a lamp post, just one,
in the middle of a field at night—
no road leading to it,
no fence surrounding it,
just light standing there
like a question no one asked,
glowing for no one.
The ache in my chest opened wide
when I saw it—
a hollow, bottomless thing,
like longing without direction,
and I fell in.
I thought:
If that’s the light, then I must be lost
in the outer darkness,
and didn’t even try
to move toward it.
Sleep claimed me for nearly a week,
dragged under by a gravity
no one else could feel.
Until one day a song
on a distant radio broke through—
The Eggplant That Ate Chicago.
It was so ludicrous
I snort-laughed—once—
and the dark cracked slightly,
just enough for air.
Then I unwound my grave shroud
and breathed.
Lights now off,
Yet the room stays bright—
With a lamp
Still aglow,
Chasing the dancing harlots
From pillar to post.
Contest: Spin a shardoma Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
Date: June 2nd, 2025
Placement: Second
Shock!
unreal, unshaken disbelief.
Choice!
the people spoke,
democracy breathes.
What was promised—
a mirage,
a lie.
False hopes built to divide,
now shattered,
leaving many wide-eyed,
denied,
unrecognized,
lost in the wreckage of the unexpected.
Post 2-0-2-4
A reckoning.
A trauma.
A truth too sharp to ignore.
Seal the mountains, the peaks, the city—
The little emperor rides waves like in Shanghai Bund.
In the end, the man who loved beauty became a rifle.
Where is the man-made bathing pool atop that mountain?
The princely courage, allies in accord,
Carried martial genes, shamanic rhythms,
Carried cells of herbs and discipline, anti-entropy.
Like Zhang Xianzhong sinking treasure into the Min River—his final aesthetic.
He believed only in genetic revenge,
Mocking blossoms, young girls, and green plums in May.
Some tradition loved empire but mistook beauty.
It collapsed in his beautiful feed for the kingdom.
A sliver of beauty—madness moved in,
A sprite watered by greed,
Denied by earth and the abyss’s breath.
( Poems by Shifeimi
Translated from Chinese by AI with authorial editing and final approval.)
Indomitable
Indefatigable
Impenetrable
Immovable
Immense
Incomparable
Interior Lineman
~ Quoted, “Hi, Mom’
“I may
just now stray
where the shadows flit
yet still I hope for light.” It
was written on a Rome tomb. She seemed to me
to be
while on earth
too young. Giving birth
when she was overwhelmed? Crass
it strikes me that such a healthy strapping lass
gave life
licked death’s knife.
Who looked from above
on this ultimate act of
self-surrender, better known to us as love?
Post Tenebras Lux
True light comes after dark.
A dawn divine breaks out
My soul without a spark
In detrius night of doubt
This dark epiphany
My deep depravity
Shaped in iniquity
Before nativity
An evil worldly breed
A spawn of night accursed
I find a greater need
To see my darkness first
If all I see is light
Then surely I am blind
My sin I would not fight
And hate him that remind
T'is not enough to see
The light of stars at night
When he who made decree
In me finds no delight
The more that I confess
My endless void of sight
My sinful soul finds rest
For after dark comes light
Post-its, coat the
Brain I keep controlling
sticking to my skull
Without holding their notice
Maybe I have spiraled out of focus
Leaving all my thoughts to obliterate my homage
It's really you on my mind
Your carving words Into my eyes
Leaving notes on my spine
As I gash into my thighs
It’s really you on my mind
I scribbled nonsense on your veins
You doodled through my tangled mane
As the pages ripped
Between words and skits
Our seats became too distance
Too far to send our visions
Of the present we desired and the past we wished to admire
etched on crumpled stained paper that was soon to be waste
Sprawled across an abandoned place that was meant to house the unworthy and the disgraced
Green moon in a dirty sky,
snow drifting in,
a subliminal huff-huff,
of polar bears stalking.
Ice crackles, bewitched
caw-clawing crows
gather to sleep
amid bad dreams.
If we gaze too long,
a green sheen
smears stinging cheeks.
When making love
to the pillowing dark,
snarling monkey's chase
naked angels
across a gloaming night.
In red and white stripped socks
toes curl.
Phantasmagoric broomsticks
swish tinsel
from bleary eyes.
Later than predicted,
a deeper snow arrives.
Wooly hats flap sleepily
as we reach down
into their long-neglected nest.
Thought I perhaps should let all my friends see,
How touched I was on finding this letter to me,
Found by mistake, after so many years,
I collapsed into buckets of tears,
A treasure bequeathed to me, was meant to be.
POST-SCRIPT:
As the writing is faint
in the scan above I have typed it out
for ease of legibility.
Abu Ben Adhem
(poem by Hunt, James Henry Leigh)
(1784-1859)
Has been translated in Greek by
Dimitrios Stais (as per manuscript
in possession of his son Panos Stais)
This small note is sent to
Jennifer Alan Hunt, the great
grand-daughter of Dimitri
Stais.
Of course, poems of many other
authors of this "English Verse"
Oxford Book were translated
in Greek by Dimitris Stais,
but I simply make mention of
the one titled as above because
of the author's name. (HUNT)
May I express the
wish, dearest Jennifer, that
one of the future editions of
Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
comprise some of your cherished
poems.
With lots of love
your gd father
Panos
Athens 19th December 1968
I often take a shameless selfie
Of myself dining or travelling gleefully
And post it on my Facebook
Or Instagram page immediately
Some people say it's quite conceited
To paste your mug so much
Of displaying your contentment
When in reality your life may be otherwise
So easy on your selfies
It's really not all self-toot
Just a way of keeping in touch
Through modern technology
Reassuring that I live and commute
surely the end times will soon be upon us ~ might as well live it up
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