in defending bastions which are but smoke
we play the game inane of make belief
sacrificial fires continue to stoke
to examine the depths of human grief
presence remains still endlessly waiting
as polarities orbit tranquil heart
compassion quells desires unabating
readying consciousness for a fresh start
limited by space and taunted by time
an illusion which we have so conjured
where freedom lies in creating a rhyme
pulsations of love in heart go unheard
no narrow agendas are now tabled ~
veil thinned, bilocation is enabled
NE PLUS ULTRA
The kitchen counts, really need my food,
It calms and quells our clamorous brood.
The den is dandy when dinner’s done,
Time for TV soothes the savage spawn.
The bed’s my reward at end of day,
There languorously my head to lay.
Foremost is a fine and private place,
Most humble of all my homely space.
The bathroom is best I have to say,
Where warmly I wash my woes away.
Epitome of domestic bliss,
Must be where I go to take a piss!
Her hands on hips— arms as handles, steadying the frame,
anchoring her impatience, calmly controlling the game.
Her stance, composed, yet defiant, as disappointment shows,
in the tilt of chin, a scolding glare, a brace to enclose.
She lets the tempest flare and roar, then quells the rage,
with her body commanding and coaxing - to persuade and assuage.
Her love keeps no ledger of what's been done right and wrong.
Her will, steadfast, long-lived, enduring, reliant and strong.
An eyebrow raised, a glance, a glare, can make bravado bend.
Her posture speaks before her tongue, calling disquiet to end.
The merciless poacher
his larceny quells
Shooting wherever
the desperate dwell
Leaving to rot
what his vengeance can’t steal
Stalking and preying
the weakest revealed
Stirring up warnings
and ghosts from the past
Damning his nature
and future aghast
Hanging his conquests
on walls that defame
That last spot for him
— dark trophy of shame
(The New Room: December, 2025)
Here where the hibiscus and the palm tree sway,
December wears a mask, a sun-baked day.
The air is dense, a solemn, muggy sigh;
No frosty breath to hang the winter sky.
The calendar integrates as the year grows old,
But the earth, a young bride, refuses the cold.
No white covering quells the green-clothed land,
Just ocean rumors on sun-drenched sands.
We seek where the stones stand, as assurance’s strong,
A parable of familiarity where we truly belong.
It should be brimmed with ice, a silent guard,
But the tropical heatwave makes the vigil hard.
The stone stands, a heart, unmovable and true,
Yet the absence of snow paints a sky too blue.
This December is a clock with hands reversed,
A winter’s tale delightfully dispersed.
We are the trees, confused, with leaves so bright,
Awaiting shadows that won’t take their flight.
The island dreams of silence, sharp and deep,
While the warm waves roll, a secret it must keep,
That the soul of winter is not in the flake’s soft fall,
But in the resilience of the stone standing tall.
The sun, a fiery bear, keeps the cold wolf at bay,
In this warm December, the stone still holds its sway.
Quiet-falls
Dark quells the last light
Streets sleep in a hush
Midst, an opaque hush descends
Nothing-moves
Veils draw close
Old mind garden fades
Memories blur and shift
A cold and silent hand erases
The path back.g of Midnight
The world dissolves
Into a soft, shapeless gray,
A memory made real,
Where the streetlights become dying moons
Then vanish
A Spirit’s Lament
This depth of thought into emotion’s seat -
finds there my spirit grieved, for I am dear.
This soul, seduced by flesh and its deceit,
Now hell-bent to doom, to perish, I fear.
"What can I do?" the meek spirit whispers low,
"Your hardened heart has turned my voice away.
The world, its lusts and pride, must you bestow?
And sink your soul in mire, further astray."
Yet from the Throne, the Living Word arose,
In flesh to bleed and lead you to the light.
God’s Spirit bends your own from death’s repose,
To free your soul and guide your steps aright.
Blood in light dispels hurts, quells random fears,
Spirit frees my spirit, to joy from tears.
Her smile; could break a man and his strength strip
Her laugh; creating within him such a broken storm
Her cruelty; as then quells, this ardour of courtship
Her laugh; creating within him such a broken storm
Her righteousness unbroken since her highest birth
Her unrequited love; in his heart could not as warm
Her righteousness unbroken since her highest birth
Her un-realistic values worn across her open breast
Her need; to express upon him, her own self-worth
Her un-realistic values worn across her open breast
Her blindness; that forever, she cannot stand alone
Her battles; to keep her fortitude, as will never rest
Her blindness; that forever, she cannot stand alone
Her quest; to find who can carry her, when she falls
Her rights; to find a man, who can retain his throne
Her quest; to find who can carry her, when she falls
Her deliberation; to then challenge all those before
Her trust; to let him break down those sacred walls
Entry?
We used to post, “No Mexicans, Blacks or Dogs allowed”
No entry allowed.
There’s some semblance of ease and acceptance now, but don’t remind of us of what we turn a blind eye to.
No entry allowed.
It’s curious to see the extent of empathy; to oneself, to family, to friends, to the beliefs that hold up our mental constructs.
We run away from the threats to our convenience & comfort.
No entry allowed.
We can justify our disdain, given the stress and pressure of life. Yet, no matter how numb we are, love and empathy will always permeate into our beings, exhuming the hate that kills our joy of life.
So,
No entry to you, hate.
No entry to you, fear.
No entry to you, doubt.
No entry to you, panic.
No entry to the anger that quells humanity.
I like the sky, it's always promising something.
It's a soothsayer for eyes scanning up,
for signs, traces and lines of reassurance.
it carries in fragments of yesterday,
It continues its theme, but twists on cue
to change its scene
in hue of clouds churning
in the stir of witches brew.
I look up at the sky to fly,
above the quagmire
above the monotony of my daily plod,
grounded.
Up there I see the script in clouds,
drifting like vanes to wind's direction.
Recalling how to dream on cue,
to believe again in happenstance.
Clouds carve the way forward,
with a longing for change, unexpected.
The sky writes in bright gold, then smears in gray.
It promises calm, then whisks it away.
It quells its brush, to hush before thunder resounds.
It gives no answer when we beg for rain.
Then, won't stop before we go insane!
I look skywards for a change to suit my clothes.
I hope for such delivery
dancing up there in cloudy skies
playing 'Both Sides Now'
with Joni Mitchell.
songs of silence our mind misspells
animal instincts soul’s light quells
but to grow in love and wisdom
grace alone tree of ego fells
Dust coats mementos in treasure trove
In a veil that palls recall with a shroud.
It dims the past with repast of neglect,
That taints memories with fading, settling light.
Echoes become fainter, scenes blur,
The sharp clear focus softens in the listless mist
As dust pervades relentless, unstoppable
It quickens the quell that time tells
Neglected memories to fade, be lost and begone.
Grotesque, in its unyielding grip of the vehement soul,
A parody, a caricature, of mercy's exalted role.
An avalanche of despair, harrowing as the Holocaust;
As scars accrue—like bitter frost life has lost.
Unsettling perceptions, now relics of savage years;
Movement on the frontline, dispel ancient fears.
As light gently penetrates each cell,
Spirits elevate, casting off the heavy shell.
Today's lessons fade chiaroscuro's grip,
Nursing the unseeking seeker’s shattered bits.
The Midas touch, sculpts the mind's trend,
Cotyledons blooming towards heliotrope's bend.
Endless gratitude, to souls who converge with care,
Hope of eradication quells mayhem with flair.
"Work hard, party harder"—the rhythm of life,
A "Talent Eve" awaits, confetti in the air as we dine.
Coaxing fledgling bards, ammunition ready to depart,
A vibrant, joyous escape from a didactic start.
Shangri-La in essence, fueled by epiphany;
Creativity set to orchestrate a vivid symphony.
Reviving life in a parasite’s domain,
The more, the merrier, the event sustains.
Overwhelmed by the flowing camaraderie,
I raise a toast in jubilant rhapsody.
As day dawns, the sky gleams bright.
Fresh clean reborn, the morn's alight.
I am the glimmer in the sun's feeble rays,
That its hope will bring me better days.
I am the dew caught on blades of grass.
Glinting beads that gleam esteem in glass.
I am the caress of the gentle breeze,
That dances, awakening rustling leaves.
I am the artist who paints the scene,
With soft warm gentle hues, so serene.
I am the sunbeams plying the sky
For clouds to kiss that come on by.
I am the hush of silence the quells
Night's clatter with quiescent spells.
I rise with hope, to chase my dreams
In the warm glow of sunlight streams.
It is such a pleasure to be up and see
The symphony of each dawn abide with me.
In quiet dim corners and drawers untouched,
Lie precious things, much cherished and clutched,
These cold inanimate things, just like a friend,
Can ease our troubles, and ill feelings amend.
Each memento and much used everyday things,
Are something special, for the comfort each treasure brings.
It's not just any old clock, that's revered, it's only that one.
With its unique tick and tock, and familiar dial, homespun.
That old worn chair there, bears your weary form,
And imbues the calm balm of a massage so warm,
That mug that holds your morning brew,
Warms hands and heart with a ritual true-blue,
It's the constancy and reliability that soothes the mood,
That quells the angst of toils and trouble on which you brood.
These inanimate things are like an old friend
They're always there, when you need a mend.
They're vital parts of your essential being's foundation,
That meld your soul, heart, and spirit's conflation.
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