I was trying
very hard
not to say it
I was biting
my lip
and my tongue
But when you
insisted
I no longer resisted
And words
I had muzzled
did come ...
“Your presence
beyond
what is boring
“The space you
take up
but a ruse
“If given
a choice
I’d be far from your voice
“Reclaiming
this time
— I now lose”
(Dreamsleep: July, 2026)
Margarita Lillico, Sponsor
Contest, Mending Fences
********************************
Since the fall of Adam and Eve,
We mortals have been on a downward trend.
Sometimes we fall apart in the mildest of winds.
In navigating our journeys,
Some wires of our lives will only take dust.
And often for reasons unknown to us,
Some wire screws of our lives will loosen.
Like medal, so much about us is subject to rust.
There are fences; weakened, weathered, and worn
That must be fixed, mended, and repaired.
A close friendship turned bitter, distant, twisted.
Even if at first resisted, let's find a way to fix it.
Even if this mending should cause fears and tears;
Or even though it has been many moons and years,
There's no better time for mending than today.
For years, time after time, I have heard people say;
"Where there's a will, there's a way".
It began as nothing
just casual words
two strangers meeting
at the wrong time.
You were not my plan
nor I yours.
Love was never invited
yet it found a seat.
We resisted quietly
calling it friendship
denying the sparks
as anything but fire.
But hearts are stubborn
They bloom without permission
Ours became a story
never meant to happen.
Written: June 26, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
Poetry Quote:"‘I am your friend, at this hour you
needed me, here is my hand, I hold out to you
With my undying friendship, I offer you sanctuary.’" By Harry Horsman
The moonlight darkens, silver stain.
“Nature’s Worst” is around the rain.
Mist remembers your “Thwarted” breath.
Gentle melodies of love and death.
The blue sky of “Woopa Bank” makes you sing.
Grey haze curls and clings to the wing.
Passion is thinning. But it did not die.
Your words still drift up in the sky.
Wild gusts blew, and the canvas ripped.
“Season’s End” left souls stripped.
But in the storm, I heard your voice.
A truth pulse through anguish choice.
You predicted the century's snare,
"Century-Twenty Two", the world never cares.
And yet, your lines resisted decay.
They lit the dark, they warned the way.
"Living To Die" in the "Cemetery" near,
Could not silence what we hear.
Your scrolls of praise, your final tone,
Allow us to feel less alone.
"Harry Horsman", poet, heart of mist,
Your "Metamorphosis" requiem persists.
some hands hurt us yet others assisted
so in truth what’s there left for us to do
no life event is by us resisted
outcomes any bliss beats within renew
clear light dawns as God’s blessings that accrue
we dwell in time stretched peace and judge no one
for are we not the light that lights the sun
Pulling at the knots, the noose became ever tighter,
each strand of string looping,
clinging tightly to one another.
Hands trembling, I sought to unravel its might
yet the harder I tugged, the deeper the night.
It resisted me at every motion,
binding me to the shame I thought
I could disown.
Each twist, and knot within a knot
were where my skills had amounted to nought; null; worthless.
Despite the frenzied desperation, the knot held.
Why
another failure?
Yet as I came to see; maybe knots aren't necessarily a bad thing.
Like the sewing, where without a knot
one could not finish a seam,
or upon a wooden bridge,
where wearied travelers might praise the builder
for leaving knotted handholds in their wake.
Perhaps one day I might even say
"I'm glad I failed on that day".
For though I have indisputably failed,
the knot has shown me my bounds,
not defeat; but rather a testimony.
A map of flaws I would no longer hide,
a vanishing mirror to be glanced back at
only briefly during my strides.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Granny’s recipe card is splattered with butter,
the ink blurred where her thumb pressed too soon~
butter, sugar, flour—all accounted for.
What’s missing is the way she hummed
off-key hymns between sifted clouds,
how the kitchen held its breath
when she cracked an egg one-handed.
The cinnamon? Yes.
But not the weight of her sigh
when the dough resisted,
nor the way her wedding band
left a faint silver streak in the batter.
The streusel is just crumbs and brown sugar,
unless you count the dust of her laughter
as she scolded me for sneaking bites
of raw dough between my teeth.
Bake at 375º, the card says,
but not how long to wait
after the oven light goes dark,
after the scent stops being hers
and becomes just a memory.
*If you'd like to read the accompanying memoir vignette, you may do so at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/intangible_ingredients_13578
I took your name
And held it between my hands
Thumbs on the soft vowels
Fingers braced against the hard consonants
At first it resisted…
A word is trained to stand upright
To behave…to mean
But grief is stronger than meaning
I squeezed
The letters bent
The silent spaces gave way
From the seams of the syllables
Tears slipped free…
Clear and unpunctuated
Too honest for grammar
They fell onto the page
Where dates usually go
Where facts pretend they can hold a life
I kept pressing
Until your name was no longer pronounceable
Until it was only wet and warm
And shaped like remembering
What was left in my hands
Couldn’t be spoken
But it could be kept
I set it down gently
And let the page dry around it
That’s how I learned…
Some names don’t survive being said
But they live forever
In how they made us weep
It's this last letter,
I write my sentiments,
I just hope that I'm not late,
To cast and pour my regret,
A once-better curse, I hope to forget.
This is my last letter,
Forever inked and bent,
In words that carry intent,
Baked in choice, soaked in pain,
With each verse, a chance,
For this long rain to end.
Dear beloved, it took its course,
I hope this finds you well...
It took shape without force,
An ocean vast with thought,
A sincere reflection of emotion,
Was my goal, with each tear that flowed.
The tears insisted a continuation,
Not a pause, not prose alone.
The lines resisted the halt,
Trapped behind a cracked dam
A seal upon these feelings,
Now deep and strong.
It's this last letter,
I write my sentiments,
I just hope that I'm not late,
To cast and pour my regret,
A once-better curse,
I hope to forget.
This is my last letter,
Forever inked and bent,
In words that carry intent,
Baked in choice, soaked in pain,
With each verse, a chance,
For this long rain to end.
Dear beloved, it took its course,
I hope this finds you well...
It took shape without force,
An ocean vast with thought,
A sincere reflection of emotion,
Was my goal, with each tear that flowed.
The tears insisted a continuation,
Not a pause, not prose alone.
The lines resisted the halt,
Trapped behind a cracked dam
A seal upon these feelings,
Now strong and deep at last.
My heart is full of blood from your ardor I am dyed dear prophet
I don't know how, but I resisted to this fire dear prophet
At the first creation I was an unstoppable cry dear prophet
Please me with your face because I am burned dear prophet
Heaven sent cure you are, a healing to flaming heart you are
A magnificent generous you are, if you wish the guide, you are
Muhammad Mustafa you are, love of the Most Great you are
Please me with your face because I am burned dear prophet
Roses don't bloom; rivers don't pour if your almighty light wouldn't be
Universe fades away, breath doesn't remain if destiny wouldn't obey to you
Parting cries, union cries if beginning wouldn't have satisfied you
Please me with your face because I am burned dear prophet
Written By Yaman Dede
Translation Onur Ünlü
I always thought, "What about us natives?"
But then I learned of our East Asian origins.
I realized my ancestors were true creatives,
Created these continents of unique kins.
I always wrongly resisted globalization,
But then I realized immigration is a legacy
Between my people and each old European,
Even though it hurt, it is still our story.
I thought I wouldn't fall for an immigrant,
Because what is the guarantee he'll stay.
But then I met you, loved first date we spent.
Now all I want is to help you find your way.
I think you and I are more or less the same.
Like my ancestors I welcome you to my land,
Just as they saved those who first came.
Now all I want to do is give you my hand.
Wounded by the weeping north wind, with the moon in my hands I'd bandage my longing,
Only now does love begin, a paradox that becomes my flight.
In your absence, I find you again, my beloved vanished from the world,
And the wounds will always sing, welcoming you in silent memory.
The waters of the world have swallowed you, and I, wounded, remain lost in the cold,
Gesturing toward the negative infinity, a love grown in silence.
We resisted, the sun and the moon, in a dance of celestial shadows,
And only now does love begin when I feel you'll forever be missing from me.
Our words, frozen, are foreign tongues that no longer unite,
At the border between yes and no, a silent witness whispers that I love you.
When everything happens naturally, and paradox becomes our law,
Only now does love begin, when you, my love, are the blue star.
In the silence between us, a song is born, an echo of longing and dreams,
I've loved you always, in the night sky, a promised beacon of love.
And in your absence, I find you again, like a light that dispels my shadows,
When I know I've lost you forever, the love within me deeply matures.
I can't avert my wistful stare,
from a memento lying there.
Tears fill my eyes, and I cannot see,
my thoughts immersed in reverie.
It was nineteen hundred and sixty eight
when I saw, with her, the Violet Grape.
Psychedelic wonders, and yet,
how could the entire world forget?
Is it only me who still knows
about the band that curled the toes
of me and my angel, the wild rose?
She gave me, enclosed,
tickets for two,
saying one for me, and one for you -
we will ascend to heaven,
on concert day, October eleven.
Reminded by a purple envelope,
of a night and girl who went up in smoke,
as if they never once existed,
a strange thought to be resisted.
I can't avert my wistful stare,
from the envelope, unopened there.
blue man had one mission but it was a big gun
Wanted to hydrate the planet, each and every one
Every plant, every person, every animal who existed.
We who heard the plan helped him. No one dare resisted.
We put water on everything and drank it as well
H2O from farm ponds, lakes, dams, reservoirs and every well
Blue man got famous and paid experts to hydrate the rest
I was exhausted from watering, so glad, I must confess
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