My Angel she walks many miles with me
Through stormy roads , footprints I see
I experience near death, It swarms! Hence!
Beauteous the wings beneath my soul, although feelings tense
I endeavor the road day by day, I see oblivious skies
She rides the clouds when away from my soul, she flies
I awake each day she will comfort my being
And she'll call my name someday to the calling
For now reflections set my very mood
And her wings carry me as they protrude
Through thick and thin I'll cherish the beauty of thought
And recollect the spirits charming me with her love
Remembering love can't be bought
God's love promises us the real thing to comfort time
The angels from the heavens knocking at the door- take us sometime
Lol
abandoned pathway
years of an undergrowth protrude
i will lose myself
I Am friends with the Wind, for I walk with The Flow
Ever-Forth, Ever-North I Go
Coming and Going from the Earth to the Stars
Running and Glistening, Quickening in Sabatons
Surging in currents from the Celestials
I Am the Zephyr, I Am the Gale, and this Soul is the Vessel
Drifting Beyond, Unto The Sun
I Am, Ever Flowing, I Am Elemental on the Run
Ever So Swift, by the Swiftness I Am Eternal
I Am Sacred, I Am Brisk, I Am Universal
In Plumages of Light, I Blitz Onward in Supersonic Flight
from Four Quarters, from the Days Unto the Nights
Ever So Smooth, I Protrude in Excellence
I Am Super Excellent,
I Am Constant, I Am Prevalent, I Am Ever Prevailing
I Am Forever Nomadic Sailing,
Running in Fervor, In Full Momentum, Unbound
Unshackled, Uncaged, by the Second Wind the Trumpets Sound
I Am Predominant, I Am Imminent in Celerity
Ever Enduring, I Am Unceasing in Velocity
to the far reaches of the Universe, To and Fro
I Walk With The Wind, and this the Wind Knows
Written: December 23, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
*************
Castle Ravenloft looms—
a janiform crown of storm-light and stone.
Its spires protrude as if imploring
a cold, unanswering nimbus.
Below, Barovia lies—
a shabby village where cowslips squirm,
and daybreak, under mists,
offers only a brief farewell.
This land’s spirit is sacred suffering.
Hope and death entwine in chiaroscuro.
Symbiosis curdles into a curse,
and the living move with shadows
as though born to them.
Ubiquitous, gelid mists
embed xenogenesis in every breath,
Their jagged deceit conning the brave and mulish.
Dark, shriveled streets of Barovia—
laden with pale wisteria—
echo with inane, forgotten glee,
an odor of treacle, revulsion, and lost joy.
On the edge between night and terror,
a winsome child may hum a chorus—
a fleeting overlap of sorrow and mercy.
But the mists return, hostile and persistent;
after tasting music, street, and soul,
only the castle remains—
a riddle whispered against
a cloudscape that refuses to rise.
Shadow mountain peak,
one somehow can’t quite fathom,
it’s that upward sweep
at sunrise, sunset,
quaint jagged features protrude,
they induce dark mirth
methinks a fable,
inscrutable, tightly lodged,
in each skyward step
novel within grasp,
phrases etched in mystic stone,
rimmed by moss whirl stream
lofty, lambent odes,
I sculpt in mound of twilight,
enshrouded wry blur
vast hunch ascendant,
edgy climber gumption yet,
settles for lax gaze
syblline boundless bard,
that red cloud piercing tower,
a remote verse whim
The bright shining visage
As glowing as the glossy morning sun.
Brighter the legs,
Though not fully seen,
That pulls a thousand eye’s apples
The skirt tangles
Above the knee.
Chubby thighs and knees too.
It was a sober chilly foggier morn
And the fainting Beings.
The rest wool flocked
The socks locked ankles
That protrude the blocky shoes
And the unmindful bosoms swing.
The neatened curly locks hang on her temples
Thoughtful, mischievous timid eyes
With conniving looks –
They look and don’t look.
Cognizant of being starred at.
Look at everyone and not at anyone.
Her whitish brown angular countenance
And the big bag of assumed knowledge on her back.
She walks into the school bus GF 8,
Lost herself in thinking of thoughts -both hers and others.
Pulling down the tens of ‘manly’ sights.
And the unmindful women
Both in envy and admiration.
Write a poem about Halloween.
The night to be seen.
Maybe a Halloween delight.
A poem with a lot of fright!
Write about ghosts and the basement.
Where the memories went.
Memories of the lost and found.
A twitchy sound.
Feeling like eating pumpkin pie?
Maybe I can feed it to my eye.
Why not, when my face is unglued?
And vines start to protrude.
Write a poem about Halloween.
Hope that it will be seen.
A ghost will haunt me.
I feel like a dead tree.
I feel like a tree stump.
Like a little bump.
Like a pimple on a nose.
Could pop at any time don’t you suppose?
Write a poem about Halloween.
With memories unseen.
Darkness unfurls everywhere.
Halloween is like a stray hair.
Like a stray hair.
Without a care.
A poem about Halloween is weird.
But strange things are much revered.
Write a poem about Halloween.
I did as if I was a living being.
I might be a skeleton but who really knows?
But I wrote a nice poem, I suppose.
Why can't my blind spot see?
it’s shadowing me in the eye's periphery
edgily creeping sideways like a crab,
watching me, it’s stalking me,
deceiving me with popped eyes
propped up on stilts, curling away when I look.
You live within my every gaze, yet evade my searching blaze.
Why my dear spot do you hide and blind me in so many ways?
Is your evasive spot futile, furtive, or a fugitive in the clear?
Are you black, white, brindle or transparently clear.
Do you suck, poke, protrude, grind
or cut, with a laser sear to blind.
Why can't I see you,
my blind spot hole?
I know you’re there
unseen on the edge!
I’ll shut my eyes now
and hope that you’ll
will be gone when
I awake and stare
to see you clearly there with me,
scene sharing two-eyed
In binocular vision.
‘tis not this scape judgy?
‘lo, prey on the defenseless
short of a chirp, quite rationalized
facets of your twisted facade
the soul degrading you?
despises, despises theeself
thy insecurities shall protrude
thy good and their wrong spotlighted
i won’t get ready for this world
it will get ready for me
let their hearts pound in their chest
cause I’m fighting for those who can’t fight
it’s going the hell down
FLY HIGH! No one but you has lived a second of your life
FLY HIGH! The useless always negatively lie
FLY HIGH! We’ll prove our existence to those who reject it
TO THE SKY! F I G H T !
Prominent Pleiadian pyramids.
Poised, pronounced perfection.
Perplexing, preserved peaks.
Panoramic, picturesque pinnacles.
Prophetic programming purposes,
Protecting prisoner proteges.
Spire insight of silence
Swotch and bind, conspiracy of mind
Conspire and self-protrude
Mindless matter of maddened hatter
Borne gall of uncongruent bladder
Reign wettened confections'n faux pas
Pram embedded bedding of public propaganda
And poised for prose 'dulted diaper thrown an' broiled'n a gutter
Homely homelessness in wake of deft arms
Freshened refreshener and wetted choke
Chugged and driven doomed deliverance
Cut of word 'cross and lost'n devious drivings of work
Ticking tenor left fear to render
These haps to fall through ungloved metal and measly meak meal, and
Coarse feel along rift ridged riverbays
Swept upon eons of words spurred affray
Sully gusts, and worry t'encrust
And collect the lost worker from astray.
Great surfing you may not have guessed
can be found in the upper northwest.
In a full rubber suit
the great whites think looks cute,
the dawn patrol shreds the gnar best.
Seems the beaches were starting to groan;
the supports underneath were all blown.
But now that Ozempic
has come to Olympic,
it appears they will stand on their own.
Once fleshy, vivacious, with curves,
Bone Beach is now lacking in verve.
When whales get reported,
the lifeguards who sort it
have nothing but sinews and nerves.
How I long to see Baywatch again,
and the slow motion bounce for the win!
Although healthy is wise,
put some meat on those thighs
or those bones will protrude through your skin.
His once smooth, light, tender hands
Now callused, rough and worn.
The veins that once were hidden now
Protrude as purple strands.
Baby skin, now savage wounds
Display how much they’ve aged
And scars with skin worn thin
Leave no beauty left to swoon.
Oh, the stories in his hands
Through years of serving show
How toil, work and suffering
Are engraved in wrinkled spans.
They are the final testament
Where blood once flowed
Whence seed was sown
And piercing oh so evident.
Beyond the seen are other scenes
Unseen by broken hands.
Hands that healed the ones he loved
At his expense, repaid all liens.
Born acquainted with grief and loss
He willingly gave his all.
Driven by love for all mankind
Left His hands upon a cross.
Written: January 05, 2023
___________________________________________
As a river beckons
and brittle stripes
of soaring reeds swell,
with a faint breeze
and a sturdy hedge,
the ebb and flow
of a loving swarm,
who humbly trickle
on an emerald ledge,
my spirit quivers
at sight of your hasty
adrift in vehemence,
full of enthusiasm,
fledgling, foolish scent.
aerial zephyrs are said,
to breathe a divine dream
upon receiving,
award of merit.
Can you pinpoint
every detail in
a seamless swerve
swaying stygian splits
in crystalline water
convey radiance
or a wispy, hazy veil
wrapped in gnomes
rhythm,
dance and chant
as twigs protrude
from swaying rims,
suave souls supplied
a haven while time invades
wrests wonted words
as sapphire scrap.
epitome of sighs.
It's time for seraphic zeal
in gauzy garments
and lunar anguish,
beseeching you with
a supple, soft cuddle
to bestow her boon,
pureness excites her.
to the brink of rapture,
leading lips to quiver
she merely dodges it,
as her grasp seeks to yield
a tender kiss, and
a loving curl of her lips.
5th place contest winner
A mighty monarch had a dream,
the kind that makes men stir and scream.
In mid-earth grew a large, strong tree,
It was so tall that all could see.
A holy one gave the decree,
to cut down and destroy the tree,
but leave the large stump in the ground,
with bronze and iron fetters bound.
The mighty monarch was the tree,
to whom his subjects bowed the knee.
His Majesty was very great,
But his arrogance sealed his fate.
God had decreed he’d lose his throne,
and live in nature all alone.
His hair like one unkempt will grow,
and nails protrude like those of a crow.
A chastened monarch he would be,
until his folly, he would see.
Like a man who has lost his mind,
he will live like the beastly kind.
The purpose of the harsh decree
was that all on earth may agree,
that God rules the affairs of men,
and decides where men rule, and when.
At the end of his harsh ordeal
the chastened king proclaimed with zeal,
the Most High God exists for real,
Let all on earth before him kneel.
Listen you haughty men and proud,
Who mock this God with voices loud.
One day you too will face His wrath,
because you chose the foolish path.
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