I walk the halls of ghosts.
Of all who came before.
The memories of the foundry floor
Reverberate in my mind.
I remember silhouettes of friends;
See them smiling there.
I see toolbags, slung up on their backs.
Hear their crazy laughs.
Their grunts of strain. Their eyes in pain. As bolts found home.
As my mind wanders these halls, still entrenched in work,
Thoughts loop large to previous days.
Wishing for days gone by—to reach and grab a piece.
Stuck in the here and now—more in back than in front.
Training new by old. Futures to reveal.
Fresh hands to shake, and smiles to share...
Toolbags of their own.
Perhaps a sign of times, as future comes and goes.
Perhaps a sentimental fool in hallways, I suppose.
- Debra
infant twilight suspends noise
around quiescent waters
stars glint nocturnal shallows
frog chants reverberate
August 5, 2026
Let's Do It Poetry Contest
Nette OnClaud, Sponsor
"Hear these hibiscus hymns"
of my hopeful heart
"the chorus a poet bleeds..."
in blessed blues
"I kissed an opera octave"
and started a silent symphony
spinning songs and
sculpting stars in syllables
The mellifluous melodies
mastered by my metaphors
tickle tentative tunes
through a tapestry of tales
Echoes of ecstasy
reverberate in every ensemble
The breath of ballads boasts
of beauty unheard
Lilting lullabies
let out love-lit lyrics
On wings of woven words,
I whistle whispers
chanting celestial canticles
of celebration
Heavenly harmony comes alive
in holy happiness
Rhythmic refrains refresh
in rolling resurgence
The pulsing verses
paint pretty emotions
in ink inspired
euphoric euphonies
crafting creative carols
of Christ-centred comfort
The jubilant joy
of the
soul's dance rejuvenates
stringing, singing and shaping
soulful silver notes
David* of the Bible is well-known for his global impact
And for sure, he in heaven knows that fact…
In every continent, each family bears his name
While social media reverberate his fame.
1 Samuel 18:14 And David behaved himself wisely in all his ways; and the LORD was with him.
April 26, 2026
3rd place, "A Fun or Humorous Clerihew about a famous person" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin; judged on 5/10/2026
Welcome to Part 10 of my Mr. Ed series, where we further explore the legacy of this horse, whose influence continues to reverberate through the ages.
Devastated, distracted, what can I do?
The New York Times, read "Made into Glue".
So deep is my remorse,
Mr. Ed, my favorite horse.
A humble soul, he would not talk,
if he had nothing to say when taken to walk.
I speak of Mr. Ed, of course,
a noble man (or horse).
They took him to water, but did they think
that the gentle soul would ever drink
in response to force?
Mr. Ed, my favorite horse.
Acoustic Shadows 4-8-26 Craig Cornish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Acoustic Shadows
As screen doors slam an audible footprint of sound
Echoes in phonics of ice in glasses
And tinkling bells of ice cream trucks.
The solstice ripens
Growing large in the splash of rainbirds
And telltale whirr of hummingbirds at feeders
As humidity buzzes, the breath of summer’s envoys
Sound out a boneless resonance
With chords that tease and tantalize
Alluring in fleeting notes hatching hazy inklings.
Haunting memories of a solstice oratorio renewed,
Veiled in the caress of a mirage,
Reverberate in noisy shimmers of Luna’s fullness.
Ripples of ghostly illusions speak in clues
Like bards of déjà vu
When sounds trickle down furrows of skin and soil
Leaving hints that foreshadow dusky shades
Recalling the hum of warmth in cold bones
And cues that foretell of the season of crickets.
A Soul besmirched of its might;
Pummeled into the abyss,
A disconsolate plight;
Left with void, with butchered bliss,
Ostracized, by its own allies;
For now their fidelity surely dallies;
Oh! The revered one, what lures me behind
Show me the path, I shall grind
Forbade my blasphemous thoughts,
Reverberate my echo, to a thousand knots!
Once a connoisseur, with grandeur and glory
Now, an abdicator with a story
When children are the target,
We begin to write our horror stories,
For what will remain of us in this world we call home?
What will become of the echoes of soles and heels on the streets at dawn and twilight?
When children are the target,
Who will schools open their doors to?
Who will harmonise the voices of the instructors on the assembly ground?
Who will sit behind those desks with keen eyes, curious minds, and warm smiles?
Who will rush out of their classrooms at the sound of the bell to the awaiting embrace?
When children are the target,
Who will bring colour to our days at home?
Who will run joyfully through the sunlit fields, glowing with the leaves and petals?
Who will sit with us, gazing at the night sky, awed by its beauty?
When children are the target,
Grief will rise like smoke from our homes,
The graveyard will mourn for the trampled buds,
The universe will rage and fume,
The elements will be sorely displeased.
When children are the target,
The race we run will be futile,
The applause will not reverberate,
And the portrait of our society will remain perpetually blotched.
February 4, 2026.
Bouquet of flowers with bright red roses,
dinner and wine, as evening approaches,
beginning of love, is dawn of new life,
when two hearts dearly wish, god disposes.
Fervent dreams walk the edge of a sharp knife,
their racing pulse, have some reason for strife,
blushing faces hold hands in deep romance,
pray one day the two be husband and wife.
Dim lit ambience, whispers, furtive glance,
perfumes and music do their love enhance,
words are said yet no one knows what to say,
desires in bodies reverberate a dance.
This day is the first of many such days,
when new love finds fresh love to pave new ways,
some end in Yes, some may start with a nay,
Rest assured, true love will go all the way!
Two carbon entities
exhale green miasmas
and throttle white throats
in a noose of iron.
The cored captives
diaphanous and rasping
plummet to frightful circles
where sardonic wraiths
gnarl wingèd flesh
in screeching packs
as time loops reverberate
manic and mindless.
Morning
finds my window
still open to birdsong,
lets the sunlight in through your void,
softly.
Hallway
holds old echoes
of your vanished footsteps,
I count while I remember you,
walking.
Sorrow
breathes in the void,
exhales your hushed absence.
I learn to hold blankness in heart,
always.
My mind
rakes memory
where you reverberate.
The echo hums inside my chest,
alive.
Time’s stride
doesn’t trample you,
it teaches me new pace
to walk braced with reminiscence,
forlorn.
songs of silence reverberate in heart
an orchestra playing for us alone
breath by breath we feel bliss ignition start
exhuming ego is how we atone
in timeless time coming into our own
with God’s omnipresence forging a bond
form dwells here, our spirit in the beyond
let her words be,
right or wrong,
her writing,
grammar and syntax be damned,
let it all resonate,
let it reverberate,
let it tell a story,
a tall, long tale
of truths,
let it transcend,
all pain (well at least her pains)
and the chilling nights,
and the embrace of morning.
through her words, and through her writing,
her very unstructured, unorthodox, free verse writing,
there is no mourning...
no morning, and no mourning
this is the setting
and these are the unique circumstances
even before she writes...
A handful words reverberate.
This mind, with lots on its plate,
deprived to designate
a graceful lyric of palatal speech.
Heed a genius to beseech,
whose soliloquy seek impeach.
Eyes engaged her essence, freed ebullience;
The shelled release evokes observers' mien,
Altered beliefs reverberate cadence:
Poised effects externals, trade tales between.
Exemplified unveiled ether's ventures,
Exchanged entreat emergence, tweaked, performed;
Sweet ripened seed, exposes her dentures,
Appeared edgy yet sleepy decorum.
Perplexed, envisioned perspectives best bent,
Derived encased enterprise defined yield;
Enters the challenged endeavors event,
Coffee express delivery, appeal.
Excused episode, Excedrin tablets
Were real sleepers, next time, chocolates.
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