One door closes, another opens
different phases oft find us half-asleep
Like the moon, they wax and wane regularly
though folks don’t always see
Conditioned to think they’re spread out
they can come in bunches
Disrupting our mindsets
evading our hunches
And when we think we’ve reached the end
another phase may lie around the bend
To shake us from complacency
to stir the pot ~ to bury reverie
They were impoverished.
Boys were always more cherished.
So, the birth of a girl did not bring smiles.
What a girl did bring were many options.
All of them heart-twisting and desperate.
To lay the babe on a trash heap outside of town
seemed cold and harsh, they reasoned.
Wild beasts might painfully finish her off.
Tossing her to the frothy fangs of the Yangtze,
she might get battered into painful death.
They thought about putting a hand over her little mouth
but neither had the heart to do such a thing.
They could gently place her in the chamber pot and seal off the top.
At the very least, it would be dark and quiet.
But any pot would forever be a constant reminder.
They finally decided, like millions before, to place her in a basket.
Perched high in the arms of a tree.
Her last day or two would be spent amidst birdsong.
Gently kneading her soul into prayer wheels.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Launched
pea-
nuts
take a
long time to
hardly even fake
making a weird bounc-
ing effort
once they
hit
the
glow-
ing showroom
floor.
_Scene: Kitchen, hunger and blame_
Wood creaked under his weight.
Lid lifted.
Nothing.
Disappointed as if unexpected.
"Your days are numbered," he snarled like a gorilla,
And threw metal to the floor.
The sound ate the small room,
While he had nothing for his own belly.
"Should I inform you when I've eaten?"
"Yes," she said.
He called her lazy.
She called it truth.
Silence settled like sleet.
Two people - one sober, one drunk.
Two people - one pot, zero food.
The world is all askew.
We have been treading daily on eggshells.
The stress level is tangible.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2026
The pot is melting...
The 'great melting pot'
This elaborately constructed pot holds a motley of colors and flavors
Once strong and pleasing to the eye, bustling with all of its aromatic juices, flavors, and textures
The great pot of RED, WHITE, and BLUE draws so many, and the few
Indigenous peoples and many others from great and small distances assimilate in this great pot
For a while, the cooking and eating were good, I mean pretty good
So good that still more ingredients desire to be added to this melting pot to bolster the flavor even more
But now, this great pot is disintegrating
Too hot now, is this pot
Too hot with deleterious elements that threaten the constitution of this great amalgamation
The pot is melting
The 'great melting pot'...
It is melting
The aluminum lid he lifted.
Polished clean? Hunger struck back!
“Your days are numbered,” he vowed
To a woman who counted not coins, but breaths.
“Did I drink with your money?”
“No. You drank our supper.”
“You sit at home without a job.”
“You take loans. They disgrace me.”
Co-operative shame on her doorstep.
He called her liability.
She called for freedom from foolishness.
Both broke. Both bleeding pride.
Cab door slams.
Midnight bleeds.
Keys jingle like broken dreams.
“The night rider is back,” she sighs.
Beer breath fills that one room.
“Who?” she asks the ceiling.
“Useless woman,” he spits low.
Single bulb shows a man unmade.
Hand rises. Her eyes don’t move,
Fixed like a viper before its prey.
“I won’t back down, John.”
Pot hits floor.
Emptiness reverberates.
Days numbered, he growls.
She stands, it's sure.
Door turns to flag.
Pretty summer days are really hot,
am I being cooked like crabs in a pot.
Fireworks made me pee my pants,
all wet but I will still dance.
Looks like I hit the big summer jackpot.
We as young clay are
molded and folded to
be the pretty pot being
stuffed into the ovens
before our edges can
even be buffed. I don't
want to be in this kiln
Its flames's to hot with
words left unspoke and
songs left un wrote. And when
I crack under the pressure they
set for us. They say to just glaze
over those cracks as they turn their
backs on the broken pot and it's
forgotten song. It's
melody of helps and
pleas left only for the
fool willing to see
a catastrophe
dressed in a
pretty dream.
a po-am
a cycle-logical
word chamber
len
jumpity rumpity toad in a pot
transmogrification often is sought
wiggly piggly nose pink and red
Halloween shenanigans often well fed
A scattering of flowers to welcome guests.
AP: 1st place 2026
Soothing the soul
Tingling of the senses
Aroma of intrigued
Tasteful Alpha
Arrangement through the thought
Read out inspiration
Sentences leverage
Ability intertwined
Right ingredients of savory
Healing reinforced
Every stir coordinated
Needing more Word Nourishment
Another serving of Poetry soup
Spoonful thought
Words to live by
Napkin ready
Efforts in every try.
“Mark? Mark? Mark!”
“Yes, Jennifer.”
“How many women
do you know
who make their own
warm, foot bath
in a pasta pot,
and work on building
a cuckoo clock all day
and are completely
content?”
“Maybe two,
Jennifer.
You have
a split personality,
so maybe,
just one.”
One of us in enjoying
this snow day
much more
than the other.
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