Call it fear or premonition.
My dreams recur at an alarming rate.
Think I'm falling for fall.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Your hand brushed mine, old wounds did speak,
whispering fears that I won't let recur.
I'm learning to trust, to let someone seek,
without plotting exits, loves unsure.
My head under your chin, a comforted rest,
you didn't recall but I felt blessed.
In the dark night, with streetlights' gentle vest,
your warmth was a comfort I'd love to test.
The Uber stopped; my fantasy did too.
I left before my heart begged to stay.
In the dark my body's longing was true,
wishing you'd touch me, in the shadows' play.
You climbed out, your tall frame, stumbled behind,
I felt your sleepy hot breath, on the nape of my mind.
You wrapped your arms around me, pulled me close tight.
In your warmth, I found my comforting night.
In the hush between the charge and drift,
The world holds breath, suspended in a gift.
North and south exchange a fleeting glance,
Shadows and light halt their ancient dance.
Current pauses, silence on the wire,
Magnetism dreams of what might transpire.
Tension dissolves, the duality wanes,
Yin and yang rest from their endless chains.
In this moment, borders gently blur,
Opposites softened, no rush to recur.
The pulse of change, a silent refrain—
Polarity paused, peace here remains.
Raucous battles between them and us;
Finality reins but life is never the same.
Pause of Polarity Interchange Poetry Contest
1/17/2026
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
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Introduction to UTI in Women
Ok, I’m leaving.
You can stop with the voices —
that’s not me, it’s my psychosis.
Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you.
This one’s playing music
without a piano — I can tell she’s
****** up, changing songs
every minute.
What’s happening? I’m curious
which radio station
this one’s talking from.
I think I should go there.
I’m starting to lose
my patience — known to recur.
One night, looking downward
toward her screaming in the corner,
I remember: I’ve seen this before.
My writing, how I humanized.
I’m calmer than when we first met —
seeing and hearing her
from first to last,
the same free psychotic episode
I’m getting used to.
I named her, but that seems useless.
She just laughs, cries, screams
—not in any order—
and angers if I ignore her.
Her whispers are louder.
She has to be close; I feel
her breath. I’m surprised
my pills aren’t working.
I need sleep — if I do, it’ll only be an hour.
I hope my nightmares stay at bay.
The both of them always hurt
my mind as I listen.
She is Lady Agares.
I will not name my nightmares —
his name is my own.
Now quiet, settled, easy, leisurely
through life’s affairs,—say, couched in everyday—
and sipping being’s sweetest, freshest ray;
Sunshine!, Sunshine! ‘midst winter’s coldest glee!
Now troubled, disjointed, uneasily
fumbling, scrambling through dumb frowning time.—Gray-
-haired night’s murk weighs down gay light’s mirth filled play...—
tumbling through summer’s scorching cruelty!
An inescapable alternation
of gloom and cheer,(to be—and—not to be),
wheeling circles and cycles—infernal,—
recur, relapse, return through all creation.;
Remember, though pain’s but temporary,
vacuous suffering is eternal.
“What is the use of a house if you haven`t got a tolerable planet to putt it on.”
Henry David Thoreau
****************************************************************
Global Warming
what have we done
for glaciers to melt so fast
for forest fires to flare so often
for tornadoes to rage so strongly
for droughts to occur oft and anon
for flash floods to recur time and again
Warriors of a kind
reporting on ground
amidst booming sounds
Bullets can’t read
words on their waistcoats
Warriors of a kind
caring for the wounded
amidst booming sounds
Bullets can’t read
words on their whitecoats
Warriors of a kind
living albeit in ruins
amidst booming sounds
Bullets can’t read
words of their prayers
War, like storm in ocean
can’t be controlled
but can be traced
yet, destruction is
at its best, loss recur
Warriors in the field
being caught in storm
pray in faith to be saved
to rebuild lives
to rebuild faith
It might begin with the sweet songs of birds
when sunrise blooms its glow, seeming divine.
We view the month to see those written words;
“Spring now begins” confirms our current sign.
The resurrection from grim Winter sleep
will move full-swing while buds unveil to stir.
Soft colors of new willow greens will sweep-
blot Winter drudge while brighter views recur.
Fresh hope rebirths the life in every soul
when Springtime flowers crown the rolling fields.
While gushing brooks from melted snow unroll-
the feeling of new life within us yields.
This mystery of rebirth gifts our Spring;
gives promise in new life for everything!
I dream of making love to her.
I stand tall in front of her tomb,
My heart churns up a lively stir,
I cannot help but feel the gloom.
I smell roses strewn all over.
I dream of making love to her.
I have lost all my composure.
Must all these painful dreams recur?
I stare and stare but it's a blur,
Her loss is great as it should be.
I dream of making love to her.
Seems that I'm tied, never be free.
Whispers from trees I try to shut.
Wish she were here. How I prefer!
Useless, for all life, must end, but
I dream of making love to her.
"We're connected to God through faith and Satan through fear."
Robert Hood
fallen spirits are involved
or below, looking for the culprit
any chart always fails
unless to flunk
why are we here?
but succeeds without error
is a dream
therefore, Satan was to blame
a liar and thief that roam the land
in search of souls
may he unfold
to the existing world
but who was to blame?
fantasy is never seen before
to the bared eye
who gave you this name?
you soul thief
~If this was the intention,
to Create.
In the imagination of a desperate spirit
It mustn't be
so does the mind secern the essence of its being?
If not, because none of us could
Inventions only
Imagination of existence
only demons can recur magic
This cryptic suspicion
in mind
a soul-seeking demon
so its existence
does not stop~
Written: October 24, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Because there will never be a perfect globe.
I'm going to cope.
I'm still young, and my small queries don't matter.
It's me versus fate in this battle.
There is a lot of unfathomable concealment from us.
It is all left to be discussed.
My loved ones and those I despise aren't perfect; they merely try their best.
I guess feelings were never meant to be expressed.
People come and go. It's in their nature.
Life's about finding our hidden treasures.
Our lives are too short to cry.
It's all about learning to rely.
The past won't recur, and the future cannot be foreseen.
The journey starts the moment you break yourself from the routine.
Society doesn't matter and doesn't care about you.
What matters is who you grow into.
It barely vanquishes my quenchless spirit of inquiry.
To what exactly reason have I sledded so wildly?
Boasters and swindlers sprang up a treaty vigorously.
People are queuing to sway slated on a promontory.
It's plodding to incite thugs by misleading people.
Your genuine assertion is both witless and guileful.
By discerning purport, you may be pioneering.
As though a doleful mistrust was typically unfurling.
Why is it crucial to recur an idyllic shade?
It's time to hoard the dart and glittering blade.
Valorous braves are slogging toward the staid.
Everlasting zest is not a squib and never fades.
Yet we must swither in waging truth and moral virtue.
Truth and equity can't alter insight on specific bestow.
Written: December 24, 2021
OUTLINE
so
elegant
exact
if
plain
but
pure
a fleeting
fidelity
this
pride of possession
that
disturb feelings
though remarkably ironic
recur
covering
the
obsessive
in veiled irony
leaving
a slight
rapport
candid
&intimate
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
Scarlet setting sun surrendered serene silvery moon,
And bold beauteous blackness is bursting with blooms!
In wide wilder windswept spaces without ivied walls,
Perennial pleasures recur, as a perfumed night falls.
Yellow canaries still croon in collaborative chorus,
Long after a laudable late afternoon's honeyed plus,
As capricious catching colors charm evening for us!
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