Whenever I see hate winning the battle over love…
and I cringe and cower and wince…
I am grateful for Antoine de Saint-Exupery
and his story of the Little Prince.
For even a Little Prince who fell to the Earth
from out of the sky
knew It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;
what is essential is invisible to the eye
Such throaty timbres – oboes and bassoons –
such gowns! My Lady, apricot and plum,
her sleeves ablaze with blue October moons –
for one short night, her villa had become
the very essence of elysium!
To “fortify” us, as My Lady said,
against the winter tedium to come,
to banish melancholy, drive out dread,
she threw an Autumn Ball. Delirium!
We met the equinox with pipe and drum.
The quality of Florence all attended,
and never were Their Graces better fed!
The sun was up before our revels ended –
and Isabella? Still no thought of bed!
Three further galliards she’d yet to tread.
It seems I hear those trumpets even yet,
and taste the sweetmeats of that epic spread
(she’d plied us with light moscatel to whet
the palate) – I believe my mortal head
will throb for ever more, autumnal red!
2 Corinthians 1:3
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort
Song: Play in the Sunshine by Prince
Checked by www.howmanysyllables.com
Written July 14, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
************
So tiny, yet so vast: a square of purple flame,
A postal stamp formed from forever lame.
Houses at its center a half-cast, cloudy glass,
Trapped in a gilded cage of grief and lilac crevasse.
Bedecked in the hue of storm-light, a figure stands,
A gaze carved from ache, hair as comet strands.
Static roses, suffused in blue, stood behind,
Each petal burned by cords, yet spirit did not mind.
Rain doesn't soak into his skin or asphalt as he vies,
Yet, unshed tears flow from the dream to the sky.
The water leaves his clothing with faint rings,
But in this dampness, nostalgia unfurls its wings.
O, how you bend and blaze, purple witness—
A design firmly woven into the yarn of threnody.
Your quiet strength lingers as words fade,
A melody that pain cannot shatter or jade.
Let this stamp be a symbol in all mortal prayer—
For timid souls who dare not weep amid silk fare.
A poignant lament for love wrapped in mauve grief,
A message sent to a visitor, destined for the glyph.
O brilliant son of the desert,
You rose through the maze of your House
With precision sharper than a blade.
The future trembles beneath your feet—
But power, untempered by wisdom,
Is a fire that devours its bearer.
Do not chase the glory of empires too fast.
Rome was not built in one day—
And neither shall a just Arabia.
You cannot serve two masters:
The West with its silver tongue,
And your people, whose eyes still hunger.
Choose neutrality not as weakness,
But as strategy.
Your true legacy lies not in gold towers,
But in lifting the soul of your nation.
Forsake not your brother, Iran.
To unite the Crescent is to raise a new dawn.
The blood of Gaza weeps through the sand,
And every drop asks:
"Where is our brother?"
Sunni, Shia, Sufi—one people,
Divided by politics, not by God.
To unite them is to write your name beside kings,
To divide them is to sow your own ruin.
Beware the advisors with smiles from Tel Aviv
And tongues sharpened in Washington.
They do not dream for you—
They only use your night to hide their shadow.
The Middle East can rise again,
But only if you learn this truth:
Real power is not feared,
It is trusted.
He sits there, basking in the sun,
Light is his home, where he fits perfectly, amongst the light,
The shine of his curled hair, perfection as he is,
He is joy personified, Heaven on Earth, too good for this.
I have known him since creation,
Loved him for always,
and, until the day Hell raises and Heaven falls,
He is mine to have, to hold, to love, to keep, but not to share.
For whom the bell tolls,
For whom the light seeks,
For whom the Heavens call,
For whom the dark retreats,
For him and only him, I am loyal,
I kill for him, I live for him,
I am not worthy for him to enter into my affections
But only say the words and my soul shall be open,
My heart, My soul, My life, My love
All for him
To the light in my life, my sun and stars, my angel,
Thank you for saving me, for lighting up my life,
for showing me a light that I can't live without.
Thank you for loving me and never leaving me,
Thank you for being mine.
I love you, my prince of perfection, of purity, of heaven...
***
O Trump, bold Prince, who stirs the crowd,
With thunderous voice, both fierce and loud,
You grasp the reins where power flows,
A lion’s heart that fiercely grows.
In towers tall and gilded halls,
You stand where empires rise and fall,
A master of the public gaze,
You walk through fire, yet set ablaze.
Your words, like arrows, pierce the veil,
To rouse the strong, to shake the frail,
A leader shaped by modern strife,
You wield your will to guard your life.
Yet heed this truth from ancient lore,
No throne endures by wrath and roar—
The wise embrace both strength and grace,
And temper power with humble face.
To rule is not to crush and break,
But bend the will for common sake,
The prince who listens, learns, and bends,
Secures his realm beyond the ends.
So, Trump, O prince of storm and fame,
Not all the battles need a flame,
The greatest kings, in shadows deep,
Are those who sow what others reap.
Command your fate with steady hand,
And lead with wisdom’s subtle brand,
For power’s path is thin and steep—
The vigilant shall truly keep.
Good night ladies and gentlemen
I’m ready to sleep and dream again
My silk bonnet on my head again
Ceiling fan going strong my friend
Good night hope you sleep long
But if you’re in another time zone
Then enjoy your morning or noon
May your day be pleasantly consumed
And if you’re looking for a test
Enter my Prince Roger Nelson contest
This time I’ll have more winners and
You can be one so take a chance
To the world, he may just be a man,
Chasing dreams, with calloused hands.
But to her, he's the little boy still,
With scraped knees and a stubborn will.
She watched him stumble, watched him grow,
Held his fears she'd never show.
In her arms, he found his start—
A throne carved gently in her heart.
His crown? Not gold, but strands of hair
She kissed each night with whispered prayer.
His kingdom? Just her open arms,
Shielding him from life’s alarms.
Through stormy days and silent cries,
She saw the world within his eyes.
When the world was cold and far too wide,
He found warmth where her love would reside.
Now he's grown, with battles to fight,
But in her dreams, he sleeps each night.
Still the prince in every rhyme,
Unaged by wounds, untouched by time.
So call him strong, call him wise,
But she still sees him through mother’s eyes—
A boy with laughter on his face,
Who gave her heart its softest place.
What I know of Jesus, I've only heard,
first, in childhood, when I was sent to church
where we were taught the Bible and the Word,
but that was not the source of my life's search.
A man of compassion, he helped the weak,
those whose lives with pain and illness were fraught,
the outcasts, the disabled and the meek.
Love and forgiveness were the things he taught.
Today, many worship wealth and power -
and those whom most harshly those weapons wield,
as they, without brotherly love, devour,
destroying that which instead should be healed.
Will violence and suffering e'er cease?
Should we not all follow the Prince of Peace?
Ah, behold
Prince William in uniform,
chiseled chin held high under ceremonial sunlight,
a speech polished like his medals,
echoing across parade grounds
as cameras hum like obedient bees.
“Duty, honor, courage,”
he proclaims,
as if reading from an antique scroll
dusted off for dramatic effect.
Crowds swoon.
Generals nod.
Newspapers burst into patriotic confetti.
And somewhere, in mahogany offices,
other leaders lean forward—
inspired, invigorated,
tugging at their tailored lapels,
murmuring, “Yes, yes, it’s time I put on a uniform too.”
What a pageant!
Suitors of war now march with princely conviction,
banners of legacy fluttering in the breeze of manufactured glory.
Recruitment numbers spike,
missile budgets blossom,
and drones, oh so dutiful,
take flight with newfound moral purpose.
Peace?
A quaint notion—
better saved for museum plaques and children's books.
The Prince has spoken.
The machinery whirs louder,
oiled by rhetoric,
driven by legacy,
and crowned by applause.
When the prince first stood naked before his new bride,
his disappointed was a little hard to hide.
Had he given all those red rubies
just to get these tiny little boobies?
Squire! Get the horses ready! We're going for a ride!"
When the princess first saw the prince's little wiener,
her pretty face betrayed an instant change in her demeanor.
She thought with a frown,
“This is a big step down.
I saw much bigger dicks when I was a teener.”
On this day in ‘58
the passenger door opened
on a little red corvette
as doves flew overhead
His Majesty stepped out
in platform heels, and booty-
less pants, licked his fingers and summoned a Revolution,
the beginning of his Purple Reign
Bill Marable
6/7/21
Fallen angel.
Great manipulator.
Narcissistic psychopath.
Predominant pretense.
Merely existing.
Demon.
You have dishonest eyes.
And a sinister grin.
I didn't want to see this side of you.
Even When I saw the glass as half empty, you'd pour it out.
The walls went up to infinity.
Believe what you want, you said.
Your dark eyes.
Your grappling hands.
Your explosive anger.
Your word baiting.
Your mind s.
Your love bombing.
Enough with the grooming.
Enough with the coercing.
Enough with the twisting.
Enough with the manipulating.
Enough with the stories.
Enough with the fraud.
You could never make me drink.
I saw right through.
Eyes are windows to the soul after all.
When push became shove, I went on my own.
If you don't have integrity, what do you have?
Beyond everything, stay true to yourself.
The abyss.
The black hole.
The after dark.
The soulless.
The silver lining.
The light at the end of the tunnel.
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