Before the light comes, her hands are already in the wet dark. She works the way a thirsty field works: it knows the rain is coming long before the sky admits it. There is no name on her badge. Her mother taught her this over roti dough: press slow, stay warm, trust a thing to give before you ask it to. So she presses, and the water wakes. Like her, it has no name, and like her, it moves anyway.
before the dawn wakes
her hands and the water move
as one quiet stream
On the roof, others hold her work up to the light. Their smiles are borrowed rain, bright for a moment and then gone. Their badges are puddles pretending they once fell from the sky. The crowd claps for the puddles. Nobody looks down to where the real rain runs.
puddle-badges shine
a sky they never came from
mirrored in their smiles
She walks home with mud on her knees and the smell of her mother's roti in her mind. A monsoon forecast glows in someone else's palm, unread, the way her work shines where no one looks. But water keeps its own accounts. It remembers every hand that set it free.
nameless as the rain
still the river learns to read
her hand on each stone
I am twenty-six. She is twenty.
Laughs and kisses bloom aplenty.
Her hand, on mine, gently presses.
My heart, she so endears.
She smiles and disappears
into a store for dresses.
There, over forty years ago,
a lady with hair as white as snow
shared my bench in the mall.
With a heavenly smile so sweet
her two words said it complete.
I knew she said it all.
Over forty years apart,
Why did I not take those words to heart?
How soon will I be dead?
I believe she was an angel sent there.
Her unheeded words, wise and rare.
"Keep her!" is all she said.
sun-struck hours flatten every shade
lawns crisp into brittle patches of thirst
heat presses down with a hand that won’t lift
air wavers, shimmering with quiet exhaustion
porches hold people too tired to speak
even hope feels slow beneath this burning sky
Tiny bones form a line, your life line can be used to define time, but the late night presses the back of your neck so forcefully that unfortunately the portions you bring arent enough endore the fortress designed to make you see the upside to your every growing timeline
See back to the spine, thin nerve swerve with the intent to connect you to the land you stand on, hoping no one knows your head is being stamped on the way you try open up the optics to get the blood pumping from worlds topics. Time is ticking and sands are pouring the beach front you see is just a hilarious illustration brought by stress and by noon youre awakened, the earth is still rotating so you might as well get on the band wagon, hopes theres room for your infrastructions.
You've made mistakes they caught you lacking so you turn the page theres no subtractions just and your existence froming all in your mind. Make no mistake youre feeling just fine, the only thing you need is your spine. No solid rod in your joints just human calcium and cartilage, youll be here just walking, just taking up mileage. Have you anything else to design, No you and your spine.
Morning slips in sideways.
Moonbeam dips a cotton shirt
into a bowl of dyes~
colors blooming outward
like shy creatures
learning their names.
She lifts the fabric.
Droplets fall in bright plinks,
each one a tiny skipping stone
across the warmth of July.
On the clothesline,
the tie-dyed shirt sways~
a small carnival of swirl and hush,
its spiral turning slowly
as if practicing
for some future miracle.
Moonbeam hums.
Not a song~
more like a friendly spell
to coax the colors
into behaving.
They don’t.
A streak of green wiggles free
and settles into a shape
that looks suspiciously
like mischief.
Wind arrives,
ruffling the hem
with the politeness
of a guest who knows
it’s early.
The shirt answers
with a soft flutter~
a tiny applause.
By afternoon,
the spiral tightens,
gathers itself,
and glows faintly
as if July tucked
a secret inside it.
Moonbeam takes it down,
presses the warm cotton
to her cheek,
and laughs.
Then she slips it on,
and the swirl settles
against her like a tame comet
choosing a shoulder
to rest on.
READ ALL ABOUT IT
AS THE DAY BEGIN THE NOISY CROWD THE SOUND
OF PEN PRESSED CLOSE TO THE DOCKET OF NEWS
HOT OFF THE PRESSES WAIT FOR NIGHT CRAWLS TO
ENJOY CARESSES THE BUISNESS CROWDS ARE ALL
SO LOUD UNTIL THE TRAIN OF THOUGHT LEAVES
AS SHE ENTERS THE WRONG COACH MAKING THE
WRONG TURN AS THE LIGHT READ GREEN TO GO
SO IT SEEMS BUT HENCE NOT BE TRUE AS THY
WANDERING EYES PIERCE THE SOUL OF THE DOVE
BURNING HER FEATHERS WHILE IN FLIGHT SHE
APPROACH THE LEDGE AS THE MASTER OF THE GAME
SAY'S BE SEATED AS THE CASE OF THE DAY BE THAT
OF A HOMELESS MAN A KNOWN STAR OF OUR TIMES
WHAT A WASTE OF TIME AS TUPAC BEGINS TO CHIME
THE GHETTO RHYTHMS JUST IN TIME FOR MS. TILMAN
TO TAP OUT A NEW HAT OF SUDDEN KNOWLEDGE OF
THE LAWS OF THE CITY WHILE THE NAACP BRIEFS
CAROL MOSELY OF THE HIDDEN AGENDA'S FOR THE
MONTH OF AN INDEPENDENCE DAY BRUNCH THAT YOU
THE PEOPLE MAY NOT ATTEND AN YET CANCEL A BET
WRITTEN BY MRS. YOLANDA NICHOLSEN 5-25-2004
2610 PROVIDENCE STREET FORT MYERS FLORIDA
RECOVERING FROM TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY
WRITING BECAME MY LIFELINE GOD BLESS CHICAGO
AND GOD BLESS AMERICA
The grass is the same in Buenos Aires and London
Argentina presses as Messi runs
National feelings, reduced to action
millions of fans with opposite reactions
England breathless as Kane goes to score
Argentina or England? Who will win one more?
One team will lose, and the other reach for glory
We're nearing the end of the World Cup story
.
Tomorrow 07/15/2026 3PM US, 9pm Paris
.
.
A song for this:
We Are the Champions (Live Aid) by Queen
On Youtube: youtu.be/FP808MiJUcM
The Colosseum sits~
a fractured crown,
its arches a circlet of light
where jeweled sun gathers,
I walk its perimeter,
my fingers grazing limestone
warm as living skin.
Dust rises~
a faint ghost of applause, of fear,
of spectacle braided with longing.
History here is not distant;
it presses close,
grainy and intimate.
The broken tiers curve
like a half-remembered sentence,
one the empire began,
but time insisted on finishing.
Grass grows where violence once bloomed;
the sky claims the open roof
as if to remind the ruin
that even power must answer to light.
I feel a strange tenderness:
noting how even magnificence erodes,
how power becomes dust,
how what remains is not violence
but vulnerability~
the open sky pouring through
what once was sealed.
The Colosseum reminds me
that time builds and erases in the same breath,
and that beauty endures most fiercely
in the places where the world
has already learned how to break.
This barren winter, hurts my soul
As through the house, I slowly stroll
Thoughts flow about day, then splinter
Hurts my soul, this barren winter
Worries press my brain, God speaks way
Then splinter thoughts, flow about day
Being old, doesn't help thought's train
God speaks way as worry presses brain
If only once again could play youth's gold
Doesn't help thought's train, being old
If clear of mind, I'm now not sure
Dear Lord please, please help me endure
Please, please don't let my emotions wind
Now I'm not sure, if clear of mind
Help me dear Lord, write this like breeze
Don't let my emotions wind, please, please
Left little finger — mocks old strident foes.
Left ring finger — wears pale imprint after love ups and goes.
Left middle — taps out the years between hugs.
Left index finger — points up high to the heavens above.
Left thumb — presses today's stamp on yesterday's late mail.
Right thumb — flips through faded pages of old diaries.
Right index finger — traces funny faces on misted window panes.
Right middle finger — catches tears way before they fall.
Right ring finger — encircles promises with gold bands of hope.
Right little finger — wiggles forlornly until another pinky wiggles back.
War
asks why,
a shadow
without a name,
a tremor of doubt,
a question in the dust,
a silence that won’t explain,
a mirror with no clear answer,
a weight that presses thought to its edge,
leaving the soul to choose what meaning is.
Observing silence isn’t easy when it’s quiet,
When the spectating stops.
When life sucks your soul back in,
and your mind has regained its license,
and it whispers memories so sweetly.
So its hands are delicate
and the realisation presses itself inwards
and the wipers clear again
and it checks the mirrors
And the wipers clear again
and it swerves off once more for the night,
phone in one hand,
drink in the other.
The dent in your mind never leaves,
but the brain amalgamated to cover it up and grow and absorb.
The flesh will always sink back in.
Scamper perches on the oak’s thin wrist,
tail curled like a question mark
he hasn’t quite asked yet.
Morning light spills over him,
and he blinks as if the sun
has just whispered something
he’s not sure he’s ready to hear.
He studies an acorn
as though it contains
the blueprint of being~
turns it, weighs it,
presses his nose to its quiet shell
and wonders, Why does anything grow at all?
He pauses mid-sprint
to consider the wind:
Why does the wind come?
Why does it leave?
Why does it never stay long enough
to explain itself?
Sometimes he stares at the sky
with a seriousness
that startles the blue~
as if he’s trying to decide
whether the clouds are wandering
or simply lost.
And when dusk gathers
its purple shawl,
he sits on the fence rail,
small paws folded,
asking the last question of the day~
the one even the trees
lean in to hear:
What does a life mean
when all its moments
are this brief
and this bright?
The emphysema of night presses into our lungs
and I walk towards you like a thought I should not keep
no glow - only the purple bruise of air between us
your silence is jagged, honed as a blade
somehow, this view left me ... dismantled, piece by unseen piece
fear feels domestic here, like folded linen in a locked room
I dissolve before I can speak out loud
and still, I step closer because trust is the only light we are allowed
and when we finally reach for one another, it is not sight that holds us -
but the quiet certainty that neither of us will let go
It’s a bitter truth.
An unwelcome truth.
A truth I never planned to confess.
But I’m a poet; I wrap my truths in velvet and let the articulation slice through the cage of my heart.
The crimson silk of my soul calls out to the unknown desire of a reality.
The oxygen dances around my lungs, smelling of a sin feigning salvation.
I can hear the rain pounding the roof; the destructive harmony of the Earth’s rage.
I can hear the song of my mind; the silence of a fading essence.
I can feel the unanswered sleeping on the surface of my skin.
I wear my beauty to punish the desire that drips down their tongues.
I wear your reflection like a consequence of my serene, vain existence.
I wear my rage like a second layer of flesh, twirling down to my fingertips.
The print presses against the paper; a unique, personal interpretation of my bodily practicalities.
Written on the curved lines of my print are the words of my very being.
A moon’s craters illuminated by the dying void of my own celestial crumble.
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