in dreams senses recede, right brain awakes ~
subconscious drives the car, using no brakes
Time reveals fragility
The status quo is a jester
A one-hit wonder
Soon lies under
The corpses of the investor
Entropy speeds up
Clinging to the last quarter
Tides recede
As they need
To find a new supporter
AHOY!
It’s not a foregone conclusion,
but a stinging reality: Even porcupines
master love, without making pain
a subsidiary organism:-
Though the pain of love's waves
may froth ashore, waves will recede
and froth will eventually dissipate
with healing evaporation: Leaving a sea
of memories floating on the ocean of life:-
Thoughtfully watered, always keep in mind,
you’re the captain of your soul, and
the blown wind in its sail:- And remember,
though docked and anchored, you can still
set sails for tomorrow—getting ready today:-
Ahoy, Matey! Be in winds of sailing grace:-
For the Pensive Poet Contest of Constance La France
"Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure,
all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train." John Milton
The pensive poet writes deep from his soul.
Downstairs into a room he will descend.
To write in secret stillness is his goal.
A pen has he with a magic feathered end.
It is the tool to take away his pain,
used by him when disappointment surges.
Reflections might appear as sad refrains.
Then such wistful poetry emerges.
The feather on the pen can come, then go
depending on the poet’s need to bleed
the pondering that from his pen can flow,
but when he’s spent, his notions all recede.
The feather vanishes; he leaves his room
till thoughts profound regrow the magic plume.
"Off this bank, captain
Or any other
To face, for no troublous sea
What's skimmed cosmically
Push, gently now, push.
'The Beguiled Dreamer' ".
World's fatigued, fed up
One voiced, and hoarse, plead.
Late eves, who sink otherwise
Down and deep, reclined likewise
Plushy lounged and chaired.
As sound tides recede.
EXHALE
There is no end to my exhale;
flowering emptiness filling me, infinitely.
Subsurface tides of me rush recede and
waters winds in beautiful tandems leap.
With in-breath I am remembering my birth,
with out-breath I my dying.
When I am silent to the very bone,
beyond myself, my edges blur and free
what choruses now, what string, what flute notes drum
who is it who sings to and through me?
When life and love breathed exactly into this world,
and I became here, was someone beside me then?
What did my face look like
before I was conceived?
SEQUENCE OF HORIZONTALS
establish
perspectives
counterpoised
with
paradoxical
viewpoints
immutably
assigned
with
evocative
concentric
longing
from
remote
depths
consoling
unknown
intangible
recede
with
expressive
strategy
into
contrasts
to
conclude
fully
the
charmed
attractions
enact
familiarity
into
oblique
ambivalent
feelings
reconcilable
to temptations
& evolve
the
many
uncomplicated
definitive
epitomes
She is the thread,
When I'm lost in my head.
When my brain is on the floor,
When I just cant push anymore,
I look to my side,
It was there as if it would always reside.
I grab the thread off the ground,
And when I do, I hear a faint sound...
Her voice in the dark,
Like an out of sight landmark.
As I follow the thread where it leads,
All my fears give way and recede.
Her voice will help me find the light.
The thread will guide me through the night.
Ill find the path straight back to her,
With this thread and that voice... of this im sure.
Don’t scan your horoscope today
to find out what the stars may say
tomorrow brings, or if you’ll see
the lilacs bloom again, that tree
bud, flare, and fade, the sun decline
into its winter’s mortal shine:
what lies ahead is still a blur,
though what’s to come is all too sure.
The vanished years recede so fast,
and any smile may be our last:
we’re not designed to glimpse our end;
just take what good the gods may send.
This is all we need to know:
we’ve got today: don’t let it go.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In imitation of (though not a translation of) Horace Odes I.11.
Please note that I never have used and never will use AI to compose or revise any of my writings.
A random comment on poetry in general: A good poem is addressed to the person who reads it, not to the person who writes it. By this standard, there are practically no good poems being written today.
I watched my bedroom fold into dimmer light,
The mirror learned to flinch away from sight,
My name slipped off the wall like fading chalk,
Home turned its face and forgot how to talk.
The hallway hummed a hollow, distant tone,
Like every echo learned to leave me alone,
My heartbeat frayed into the brittle air,
As every inner voice dissolved in a scare.
My hands forgot the weight of being home,
I felt myself recede, begin to roam,
A stranger leaned inside my borrowed skin,
And quietly erased the girl within.
Ritual for prosperity
"Golden cord, bright and bold,
Turn my efforts into gold.
Tie the luck and lock it fast,
Make this newfound plenty last.
Negative tides must now recede,
Success is sown in every bead."
Best written and kept by thread
Contest: 2026/03/15 Write a Beautiful Shadorma
Sponsor: Constance La France
Through Author’s Lens: “Where the world groweth dark, the child yet keepeth the dawn.”
Cold winds stir
Silent dwellings wake
Small shoes wait
Pause again
Mothers scan dim firmament
Night draws ever near
Thin clouds drift
Vast heavens hold breath
Young eyes lift
Slowly now
Why cathedral bells recede
Birdsong breaks to hush
Pale dawn comes
Radiance parts mist
Bare trees speak
Low murmur
Children step into morning
Hope stands unappeased
The knot of ignorance is the ego,
attached to which we flounder about blind,
knowing not light of Self, in heart aglow
but once head melds with heart, with love aligned
and cravings of lower mind are declined,
the unfed ego then has to recede,
whence our spiritual growth gathers speed.
For the jilted women who have loved some men
and felt a love as warm as melted gold
recede from them again and then again,
I write to you about when love grows cold.
Where goes the warmth that once consumed their soul?
When does the gladness vanish from their eyes?
Sweet candy becomes the blackest lump of coal
when you no longer are their fondest prize.
The stare that lingers turns into a glare
that strips you down, but not in a good way.
You feel surrounded by chill polar air,
and no more will you see a sunny day.
With anyone you choose, you roll the dice.
Move on from those whose hearts turn into ice.
My dreams are glossaries of his charms and virtues
More than those things that Santa can bring.
The curl of his lips
their sweet flavor
and his molesting appreciations
If you feel sweet rhapsodies, are they imagined?
But just as the light of bright stars recede
and interstellar constellations wither
memories of dream-state passions fade.
Not that the spheres of their collateral radiance wilts -
in recounting those subconscious tempest smolderings
- we hold them tenderly in our favors.
.
.
A Christmas playlist:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_01.mp3
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