Did we really dabble daily?
You must be hyper-delirious!
Is it the posit in my eyes;
the recent rosy surprises?
Honeymooners might silkily slide
and slip sleepily into such dreams,
remembered. Still
such thoughts bring to mind
those early reclines of young love.
I can picture you in your red threads,
unveiling of slim
and vainglorious muscles,
the hustle of prowess.
Our steamy windows,
the firsts, the thirsts,
the pinpoint of lusty eyes,
the thrust of vigor.
Do we dabble daily
in linking love,
hand in hand;
the saxophone hums.
Together we slide
through the love tunnel
in the dark,
dangerously drifting
toward the eternal waterfall;
the climax.
Gloom pervades, an empty stillness hovers,
No sound, except the echo of faint sighs,
Rising from a frail chest.
Popped upon white pillows, a small girl reclines
On her sick bed, incapable of sitting up.
Her body down the waist, is wrapped
In a thick blanket to douse the chills of fever.
Consumption has eaten away her vitality
Her sick lungs gasps for breath
Her face, a white paper- pale and bland
Her golden hair lies disheveled.
A curtain hangs dull, half drawn
Waiting for the final pull.
The lady, her aunt who has been with the child
Through her tortuous journey,
Bends down clasping her frail hand
Unable to face the girl’s blank stare.
A yellowing leaf is about to take its downward spiral.
An unseen guest waits for the final embrace.
The faint stirring of life will soon desert her.
Yet love remains, a whiff of cool breeze,
Fanning her fears away with a gentle clasp.
In a critical moment of suffering and helplessness,
No medicine, but love alone serves as balm.
Each blurred stroke unravels the silence,
Of art that speaks for itself~
Man’s vulnerability and hovering sorrow,
Of a life so enigmatic, cast in gloom’s shroud.
Written: May 29, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Margarita Lillico
1st place contest winner
********************
O hallowed recliner, throne of my repose,
you cradle my chaos, you cushion my woes.
With cup-holder majesty, armrest divine,
you whisper: *“Forget the world, the remote is mine.”*
The computer hums like a loyal old pet,
its screen a sanctuary of Wi-Fi regret.
Emails parade like clowns in a ring,
while Netflix insists I watch *one more thing.*
Domestic bliss? Oh, surely it’s this—
a kingdom of crumbs, a fortress of fizz.
The recliner reclines, the keyboard complains,
yet comfort and clutter run through my veins.
So crown me with cables, baptize me in light,
let spreadsheets and sitcoms both bless my night.
For bliss is not roses, nor candlelit cheer—
It’s Wi-Fi that works, and a fridge full of beer.
my waste basket reclines on a full stomach,
patting a grated belly
stretching over three course meals
of rotten ideas.
i ask myself why?
you've had your native tongue for,
how many years?
how many months?
how many days
of chatter and quip
could you have spun?
i count the minutes between pencil strokes,
between lines of order and my graphite mess.
i think the only long word i can properly spell is
Tantalized, but only because it's phonetic.
it's not that i don't want to write.
you could only dream of
how i dream of writing praise-worthy poems;
maybe one about a bird braving the storm,
or
how betrayal leaves the
bitter taste of coffee in the mouth.
but then i think of the galleries of poets
who have already written about small birds
or storms,
or both,
and how coffee really isn't that bitter.
and so
mind not made,
my paper stares at me
with blank expression, reflecting
the thick snowy fog
i'd like to think fills my head
instead of empty space.
the kind that clumps up
and trips over itself
like a hairball stuck in a cat's throat,
or a ball of tangled thread.
uncomfortably clinging like an itchy sweater.
Sunlight Whispering
Early Sunday morning;
nature rattling at the front door!
I accept the invitation to bond,
stepping out with nothing more in tow
than an upturned collar
and a theatrical imagination.
The morning’s ground is well-baked pastry,
crusted with a shiver of winter;
sunlight whispering across the ground
all sharp colour and playfulness.
So I stride out, church bells skipping alongside
with light skating off in front of me.
Soon I am within reach of the beach;
my sandy sanctuary,
but nature is in a roguish mood,
its light fluctuating;
its moods shifting;
gloss turning to flat matt.
The sea offers up a cold, blue arm
encouraging me into watery depths
while the sky, heavy in thought, reclines
on a grey leather-weathered armchair.
Behind, peeking through clouded curtains
a new season waits to spring into action.
Ian Souter
Fur bounds, through the cottony breeze, to me.
On a warm, summery day,
the scent of dog resounds.
A wet nose, commiserate smile and hug.
Against my skin, he reclines.
I’m always home with him.
His eyes, see not, purple flowers blooming;
not intuitive of hue;
but bud’s loyal as bees.
My shoulder’s bare, does he know skin, or care?
He stays very close to me
and wanders nearly far.
My pretty dress and handsome hat amidst
the enchantment of meadow.
He doesn’t know its charm.
Obeys, he stays, protects territory.
A fine life, with benefits;
faithful to each other.
An emperor reclines in
thrall to my confines
O, how he’d dictate to his heart’s delight
but he’s too wise to fight
my shrewd mind and my steely spine
~ carves out his place midst my shrine
In sunlit rooms, a feline form reclines,
Meolu, the cat with fur of silken sheen.
With eyes of jade, his gaze on birds' designs,
A graceful hunter, silent and serene.
His purrs, a melody that intertwines
With household sounds, create a peaceful scene.
At night, he roams on padded paws so light,
A shadow dancing in the pale moonlight.
With sleek quartz body he reclines on the dune,
rolls on dancing with the rhyme of ripples strewn
listens to the arid music of the harsh desert wind,
face gleaming, doesn’t mind the grueling grind.
He lies still on mirage in the shadow of solitude,
his heart of cool crystal feels the heat intrude,
sees the scarlet sun scorch the desolate desert,
waits for the waltz of cool night breeze to start.
He feels the forceful fury as the sandstorm blows,
to the fervid fold of the opalescent oasis he goes,
where he sinks as serenity soaks his heart’s core,
the rage of the desert sun can’t sear him anymore.
tired of his violent program
turns off, un-reclines, stands up
scent of perfume drifts down stairs
turns on love station
The cherish of the pearled constellations reflect
in her eyes, so wondrous her eyes.
It is the hour of the romance of the spring equinox,
the saints are whispering in their night vespers.
Her muse slumbers in a gown of velveteen dreams,
yet, her moonlight-blessed creativity is such
lyrical ecstasy born from her quintessence.
Her gifts of poetry bid me to breathe them in
with their stardust enchantments.
No, she is not mortal,
she pens of not only love's light and stars,
but of humankind and it's folly.
The blithsome moon desires to stay,
as her eternal face of ageless lover's
inspiration will not leave her timeless poetess.
Poetess, oh poetess, reclines on
cumulus clouds of eventide pink and lavender,
that billows so gently from her being.
Rise, dear poetess, and pen more the
mastery of your words, your verse,
til God's gilded dawn. ~
His wife dies.
You have seen it all before,
you can tell what will happen next.
He will recline in the home
that she has woven around him.
He will let the ivy
of their long years together
coil around his somnambulant thoughts.
The house grows imperceptivity
into a mausoleum.
Some warmth remains,
within her carpet slippers
and housecoats.
He keeps them close.
The cat will always be
the shadow of her hand.
He is a watcher,
not at the funeral or the cemetery,
but from the other side of a bed.
He arranges ornaments,
puts them back the way they were.
Takes out fading photographs
of them both on vacation,
good times, also
times when heartbreaking rocks
had to be climbed.
He places all those sepia moments
into a shoe box
she has provided,
knowing he would need it.
The land lies
Chilled and stilled.
Whether flatlands
Or rolling hills.
Damp, cold, and alone;
She doesn't feel at home.
It's hard to feel at home
Where warmth and purpose seem
To be in decline or have departed.
The land knows that she was made to yield;
To yield grain, nuts, fruits, and vegetables.
But when she gives pause and thought,
She realizes that she's right at home.
She surrenders herself to a state of rest,
And when thought upon, she no longer feels
Bored and alone, but very much at home.
She becomes pleased that yesterday's yields
Are being utilized and feasted upon. So, she
Reclines and anticipates the yields of Spring.
She can't wait for the sprouting seeds and blossoming
trees. But until then, the lifeline of the land's present
season will thrive on patience, trust, sleep, and anticipation.
010624PS
Contest: Brooding Nimbus Sponsor: Edward Ibeh 6-19-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brooding Nimbus
Midnight trails a filmy brooding nimbus,
Idle shadows etch lines on the daylight;
Vertigo lingers, teeters on limbus,
Distorted ghosts escape into dawn’s sight.
Remnants of realms, inborn of misshaped clouds,
Ruminate raindrops to bleed the bizarre
Palpable phantoms the mid-day enshrouds -
Reclines as shape-shifts in murmuring stars.
Hobbled memories drifting unresolved,
Surrealistic needles stab dazed eyes
Fretting repines, floats in veils unabsolved,
Fades slowly into the unanswered why.
Slowly day chases back mystic extremes
Evening broods in misty nests of new dreams.
I will doff my ermine gown
and take off my kingly crown.
The day declines, the course is run,
on fleece of gold reclines the sun.
I'll not retouche the Mona Lisa
or straighten up the Tower of Pisa.
Further work in that connection
I leave to those who seek perfection.
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