If crying is good for you then why does it make my head hurt? Why does it make
my eyes puff up and my nose run and my face salty? My face is dry and wet all at
the same time now how does that work?
If running is good for you then why does it hurt? Hair and face drenched in a
different salt from before, all sound drowned out by a thunderous roar from
within. Every inch of you screams but you push nonetheless because it’s good
for you, how?
It was easier as a child. I could run for hours and cry for days—in that order
specifically—but now that I’m older everything has its limits. Whether I can
see them or not.
Too much water, too much food, too much love—all of it bad. Too much of
anything is bad for you, the art of indulgence they’ll say.
But why?
English is weird so all of these questions can simply be answered with one
simple word: Because.
I said simple
Not fulfilling.
FRUITS OF OUR SEX
The sexualization of men and women lurks on every street corner
From the eggplants at the grocery store
To the cucumbers laid out at the spa
Can’t a woman enjoy a ripe banana?
Or bite into a watermelon while its juices
drip down my chin, slipping into my bra
What is it about food that’s so sexual?
Or is the pleasure hidden in the hunger that drives it all?
A craving, a desire we all have—built in, hardwired
A balanced diet turns aphrodisiac, quietly conspiring
Fueling our passions
as they seep in, interrupting vision with cloaked actions
What if I don’t eat pineapple?
Or my cheeks puff up when I eat peach,
What’s so wrong with small cherries?
Do they taste any less sweet?
What about what I want—
Can I not have sex with socks on
just to keep from worrying about cold feet?
The fruits of our sex are something for the eyes to see
Yet labeled in bold: Don’t bite into me
Is that what makes you want us more?
The warning, the restraint, the closed door?
Indulge in your desires—still your thirst returns unsure
No sweetness stays long enough to cure
So tell me—
is it the fruit,
or the mind
that makes hunger feel impure?
War prowls not in nations ,
but along threads we cannot see,
stirred by men afraid of being small.
They hide behind heavy drapes…
Blind to the dust they leave behind.
Egos puff up and snap with each word,
sparks falling into fields,
that never asked for fire.
Voices puff themselves up like proud birds,
words flicker over dry tinder--
pauses yawning wide for disaster.
Ego, restless as a fidgeting child,
tugs at the world until it tips and leans, laughing,
chuckling as cities lose their balance,
holding on tighter
until Hope folds in on itself and retreats into shadow.
And still they feed it,
men who drape themselves in wrath like armor,
bowing to Force as if it held a crown.
Victory casts a faint , weary smile
while the World leans aside,
guarding its secrets in silence.
The Selfish Egos of War
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Contest Judged: 1/11/2026 6:54:00 AM
( 1st Place )
Written: 11/29/2025 (Don Mueang)
God forgive me for being opinionated
For not all of us are fuchsia infactuated
With that young peacock preacher
Watch him puff up proud to lead her
To her denim despair
From the pulpit to satin’s pit
You see they had a ten year affair
Wow look at his ego glow
Neon on ions of black pride
She did a Facebook post
A tell all and then she cried
But her photos although damning
Were like spamming
The church will forgive him
But not her
He is a habitual fornicator
A loose lip ladies leech
Instead of removing him
They will only lift him up
And pray he keeps his gift of prophecy
Despite the hypocrisy
The money keeps flowing
Congregation keeps growing
The young smile behind ice cream cones.
Crying when they scrape a knee.
The elders puff up behind fine machines.
Imploding when life has broken into pieces.
Tranquility lies somewhere in between.
Everything is temporary like a beech or a breeze.
Somewhere between the cone and the bleed.
Take a breath-pray to have appreciation for the day,
For just living.
On troubled roads of life, when opposing sides collide,
Conflict of emotions clamors, agitating ego and pride,
While empathy warns: let forgiveness be your guide,
As benevolent angels, in missives of compassion chide.
Mired in wins and losses, when humanity strums offbeat,
Adversaries propagate hatred, and blatantly mistreat,
As meaningless conversations puff up, donning conceit,
While expressions of solemn amiability retreat in defeat.
A proffer of calm and goodwill, checks enemy’s reign
When sanctity prevails, calming a perturbed domain,
As atonement and humility heal, soothing angst of pain
And disturbed vibes seeking revenge, begin to wane.
As nobility of repentance tenders offers of mercy, grace,
Malevolent behaviors recede, ashamed in disgrace,
And enlightenment of intellect inspires vacuous space,
When hosting redemption, reformed enemies embrace.
In affluence of cognitive thoughts informed minds elate
Harboring tolerance and sympathy, discarding hate,
Being harmonious with peace, mundane life they liberate,
Achieving balance within, unfazed by travails of fate.
Stars, like glowworms, surround the gibbous moon
Like cold mood of a play, blinks blue lit sky
Dark clouds, like ghostly shadow shows, puff up
Moon moves toward dusky clouds that puff up
A night heron flies across the full moon
Like Hera in black-blue gown, shines the sky
Angels enter, exit in scenic sky
Smokes, as though from Elysium, puff up
Skirting the boots of the silvery moon
Soul is bliss-filled by the charms that puff up
Heart is enchanted by the blue-whale sky
Mind muses on marvelous marble moon
23 March 2022
The Night Sky Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anna Marie Kaianah
Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake
drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature
casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper
and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.
Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.
Fly, raucous black-winged crows, to squawk
Across the open window’s frosted sill
And roust out warm and sleepy lay-a-beds
To autumn’s spicy smell and errant chill.
Opalescent winds tear in from ocean’s break
To toss brown-toasted leaves and shake their curls
Like naughty children, sending them abroad
To play at hide and seek with frisky squirrels.
Hats sail; hair flies; coat tails flap and snap;
White fleecy sheep puff up and chase and play,
A-tumbling into ocean at horizon’s edge,
Where full-sailed ships heel amid blown spray.
Tang of apple fall and wild grapes soar
To mingle with those last few blooms of flowers,
Sweet white clematis and orange marigolds,
Of salt marsh, cooking jam and sudden showers.
June breezes whisper soft and kiss our cheek,
Winter’s bitter gusts bite nose and toe,
And April wafts a taste of new-born green,
But autumn’s winds make all our senses glow!
I count it that I’ve once again won
For being fifty one:
On this day, the 15th June
High my stereo with tweeters tune;
In noise–prosecuting quarters to Victory ululate,
In advance vowing to not later vacillate,
For only a just-caught-and-now-brooding criminal
Or the fast-wasted by a disease terminal
Would to the Euphoric say “Nay”
On man’s caution-depriving Birthday…
Really, the day to puff up one’s chest for boasts
With paid filled glasses for appropriate toasts,
Save for the life-jailed already gathering dust
And facing a tomorrow of inescapable rust
Or the piteously dying with his graveyard space
Reachable with not so much as a long pace…
Happy Birthday to the Gemini
Here in Nigeria but very sure He is in “Germany”
Already ambitiously eyeing Fifty-two years,
The prayers that should take him to it selecting all their gears!
My fickle-minded, "dreamlike" self so says,
This life, like dew-drops, here, is "unreal";
Immaculate flowers my garden bears,
Few days, lo, they fade and face burial...
Lustrous desires seep in me like teabags,
And stir "surreal" delights in my cup;
When inner integrity gets in snags,
Fancies occupy my mind and puff up...
Earthly life, "Trancelike", is gifted to me,
Like a gift I share it so blissfully;
Affections, "Shadowy" pleasures hug me,
I get rid of them rather so sadly...
"Imaginary" Past, present, future,
Years, eras, Times, and minutes are counted;
And the Earth, Fire, Water, Sky, and Ether,
Seen and unseen truths and marvels measured...
"Ethereal" Divine interventions,
Graces and gifts poured on me heaven-like;
Life born "hazy" from Spirit's loveliness,
Will reach Him, most soundly and angel-like.
“Then the mystery was revealed to Daniel in a vision of the night.” (Daniel 2:19)
25 May 2021
Writing Prompt - Dreamlike - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
We as sinners, want to impress–
how weak would we appear to admit we regress.
So we remain hidden behind a happy face;
Stoic in appearance–weakness never showing a trace.
Feeling alone, we are fearful and weak–
hiding the true face, never admitting defeat.
But the Lord knows our battle with that old nature,
the ways we puff up to look big in stature.
If we could fully realize the liberty found only in Him,
and possess the freedom that Christ did win;
Our knees would crumble, to the ground we would fall,
and the Spirit of grace will lift us to Whom we are called.
Remember this and our face will shine;
that God looks on His and says, “you are Mine!”
With our childlike voices, lets admit our need,
knowing it is only in Jesus, one is truly freed.
Jodi felt the wind puff up her skirt
And float her down the hill, gently
Placing her upon a giant
Mushroom, waiting for just such
A breeze. Aloft, the spores fly
Everywhere, planting themselves,
Preparing for a future takeover
Of the world, once they too
Have grown. Jodi hopped off
The cap and ran through the
Celery fields hoping to find
someone to tie her shoe,
But no one was there. They
Had all gone vegetarian, eating
Their way through the mushroom
Forest, trying to find dip.
They instead found butter
Which is just what Jodi
Needed to finish her
Muffins up on the mountain.
Written for a creative writing class in 1990.
The next life will see me as a skyscraper
Thirty seven stories tall
With shiny clean windows
Overlooking Kansas City
Which had never had one before…
I will overlook my fantastic fountains
Admiring multi-colored people pointing up at me
Loving their astounded faces
I will be painted orange yellow, like twilight.
In the Crossroads district
For it is the one that would accept me.
There will only be one messy window.
It will be on the ground floor
With lots and lots of color exuding from it
And a red window box with happy hot pink geraniums
People will get closer and peek in, wondering what is going on
They will see my granddaughter, Molly, an artist, painting.
In the background will be oodles and oodles of color.
I puff up in pride thinking of it.
We don’t need no stinking contests
Motivation’s deep inside.
Endless golden cyber trophies;
Only serve to puff up pride.
N/As have accumulated
PS judge is pretty mean.
Why spend hours with pen being active
If we’ve no poetic gene?
We don’t need no competition.
Join the cynics’ bold crusade.
Add your name to my petition;
Join the ‘Bitter Bards’ Brigade’.
Just a minute! Email’s popped up-
Second placement! What a star!
Disregard my fulminations
This contender’s going far!
17/07/18
Contests! Who needs stinking contests! competition
sponsored by John Lawless
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