I am the unfulfilled dream,
I am the demon not faced,
I am the speech without a theme,
I am fears you haven’t chased.
The wave lost in an ocean wide,
The seed hiding afraid to grow,
The storm brewing on every side,
The tide feels a great tow.
So see who I am
Your dream will become a reality,
Your demon disappears,
Your words an actuality,
Your strength conquers fears.
The wave will pound the sand,
The seed begins to grow,
The storm will show its hand,
The tide begins to ebb and flow.…
I am your potential—release me.
Today I woke with a feeling of optimism,
a feeling that this day may result in some
very productive activities.
A chance to pare down my list of to do's,
the list is long, the items are quite varied.
These tasks, none of which are particularly exciting,
just rather mundane everyday things that we all have to do.
I sat down to mentally review my list, a list put to memory.
I carefully considered each and every one, as well as what
each chore may require of me to accomplish.
The verdict, not today!
Potential remains.
I could be a prima ballerina or a semi driver
could rename myself McCellihouti or McGiver
could become a psychologist, biologist, zoologist,
anthropologist, or an ultra-mologist.
My therapist stops me.
What is an ultra-mologist?
It’s a person who trains for every position just in case.
In case we get to live under the ocean or outer space.
I am not discounting any ideas, for they are all great you see.
Might even become an explorer and discover an unknown sea.
I could be a pirate queen and make others walk the plank.
Could become a wayfarer like my Uncle Hank.
I am open to any profession, for I am great at everything.
Can dance, knit, work on car engines, what will my life bring?
This might seem braggadocio from another.
But I am brilliant and talented – just ask my mother.
Life cannot put any limits on me, you see.
I am confident and wild and wooly and free.
I remained like that date
on which no special work could happen.
I remained the middle date of that month,
whose number only kept matching every month.
I remained alone—
like a snare,
like a fading flower,
like a living corpse,
slowly deceiving itself,
day by day.
I don’t know
in what useless race I am.
I never win;
I only keep losing
little pieces of myself.
Yet the days kept passing,
like pages
no one cared to read.
Perhaps one day
this forgotten date on the calendar
will learn
how to bloom.
Until then,
I keep breathing, marking, treading
through each day and night,
as the clock continues—
time moving quietly
toward an unmarked date.
Mr Benjamin Khazi from Libya
who went by 'Ben' we are taught
when wanting to loosen his load
if ever he were caught short
designed a camping commode
as a potentially preferable portable place
to park his portly posterior
then had them manufactured en masse
with a motive quite ulterior
for he turned his thought into gold
altho' on a whim yet going out on a limb
more than several such stools were sold
which aptly were named 'Khazi' after him
The willpower to remove
the mountain lies in the mind
there is not an impossibllity
that one can find
The borderless universe
gives us the opportunity
to channel new pathways
and move with the sun
We have tremendous
power create with time and run
We are born with a blank slate
to fill inside and paint
Whatever our hearts desire
and to inspire as a saint
Our dreams lead us to become
leaders of tomorrow
Why should we fade our thoughts
to live in sorrow
So many gurus have come
into this world and left a trail
Se have sufficient knowledge
to guide us and not fail
The weapon of the mind
can cause the forest to burn
Imagination is the gift of life
to have patience and learn
There wilñ never be another
opportunity to breathe success
Time never returns to reopen
the doorway we once could access
In cubicles of muted beige,
they bloom unseen
wildflowers mistaken for weeds,
plucked before their particular brilliance can unfurl.
The boardroom hums with spreadsheets,
pivot tables, KPIs,
while down the corridor,
a woman carries galaxies in her coffee-stained notebook,
algorithms that could reshape everything,
if anyone asked.
But they don't ask.
They measure output in hours,
not in the way her mind maps constellations from chaos.
In the break room,
someone laughs
the sound of a river refusing to run underground and upstairs,
behind mahogany doors,
they wonder about retention rates,
never tasting the specific honey of what makes hands want to build here.
Seeds can wait decades in dormant soil,
or they can ignite overnight if someone strikes the match,
leans close enough to feel the warmth already there,
says: show me what you see.
Have these lost flames been found?
Am I fire? Am I the scorching sun?
I am not like them.
They are Earth and Water—rooted, fluid.
But I thrive in heat and wind.
My temperature climbs as my temper flares,
especially when I witness harm and injustice.
I want to burn this corrupt world down.
I am not like them.
Is there a safe word to hold me back?
Once the flames awaken, can I control their path?
To destroy the old, to clear the way—
for something whole, something new.
Golden light ignites, bringing warmth and joy.
Is it almost time for this force to rise?
I hope so.
I am not like them.
They want to keep things going as they are,
even when it is not working.
I want to bring change to pass.
I want to start an uprising,
to bring a better life.
great green grizzly gorilla came by to sit on my knee.
I was horrified and yelped “why did he pick me?”
He’s cute, said my husband. Be still, or you’ll make him blue.
Okay, I agreed, but I am turning him over to you.
a lively, little lamb bounded in to sit on my lap.
gorilla and husband were laughing. One said you’re such a sap.
I was thinking lamb chops for supper as I stroked her soft wool.
She read my mind, and dashed away, meadow was her goal.
Next entered a fluffy bear with big black beautiful eyes.
That he fit through our teeny dog door was an enormous surprise.
The gorilla leaped off my husband and dove through that door.
Three fluffy potential pets, but only one to show you, Lenore.
SKEPTICAL THOUGHTS UNDERMINE VERBAL WARMTH
as offered aloud from masculine parted lips.
When brain doubts unexpectedly burst forth,
ensure same feminine brain shreds them to strips.
MOONLIT NIGHTS OBSERVE POTENTIALLY QUED
magic often downward fracture and fall apart
when a man’s truth isn’t evidentially clued
to a willing and attentive sweetheart.
AMPLE BAFFLED COUPLES DECLINE EMBRACE
if one is not genuinely enthused.
When qualms clearly show on one’s face,
the other’s face soon appears confused.
ENTICING, FOXY GALS HARKEN INTEREST
and good-looking men embolden heartbeats
so that when neither is indifferent
romance may take a stroll down High Street.
AI: panacea or pain? Contest //Sponsored by: Simon Rogerson
Contest Judged: 9/9/2025 6:59:00 AM
( Ist Place )
Written: August 10, 2025
A whisper born of code and light,
vast potential, a promising sight--
yet twilight sprawl where circuits reign.
Panacea — or pulse of pain?
We hold the key, the spark, the fear,
to pave the way — far and near.
every day has potential
to be a disappointment
or a celebration
I surround myself with people
who know how to celebrate
cautiously avoiding those who resolve
to always be disappointed
Swirling words from an infinite field,
Caught and thought in a moment of time.
Knowing not their future or their yield,
Their full potential may be sublime.
Allow yourself a time to reflect,
Give your thoughts the freedom to expand.
It won’t take long for them to connect,
Piece them together the best that you can.
For simple thoughts to be understood,
Whether written are spoken be clear.
Used correctly, they’ll be more than good,
They’ll be easy to read or to hear.
Allow your thoughts to simmer and stew,
Make your message be truly unique.
Add some depth for those special few,
Who hear more than just the words you speak.
Most of your words the crowd will not hear,
Or even remember in the end.
But those who listen, they will endear,
Mature thoughts on which they can depend.
my potential, an entity I've put on a pedestal
I spend my days climbing her ridiculously high ladder with gift-wrapped handmade blades; only leaving when her skin is ripped & her dreams for me fade, little by little
The cruelty of my actions is but merely protection from rejection
I need her to let me go,but she craves; she lusts over the idea of intertwining our abilities, without my blades of insecurity
"What if this is all that I am?" a question too hard to answer, even for her
Admittedly, there are times, when I allow her powers to flow through me, but I almost always end up killing her
Like a dead, dried flower placed in water; her trust in me is actually just suicide disguised as hope.
mind's magnificent might may move mountains
©bfa060125
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