Beginning to realize life isn't a movie, but I am the protagonist.
Only God is the director, and the one who builds the cast list.
Sometimes He rewrites the script without notice,
And shifts the scene to sharpen my focus.
There is no rehearsal in life, no second take,
No edits, no pause, just the choices I make.
The spotlight doesn't wait for me to gather my thoughts,
So i speak with conviction, ready or not.
This isn't Hollywood, I'm not here to pretend,
I'm here to become who I was meant to be in the end.
The ending may bring peace or hesitation, a moment filled with joy or desperation.
Life is not a movie, but it has a final destination.
She walks, and the world forgets to breathe,
Each step a stanza, soft beneath.
The wind rewrites its course to trace
The rhythm rising from her grace.
Eyes that flicker like candlelight,
Words unsaid, but burning bright.
A sway, a turn, the air responds—
As if she's dancing with the dawns.
Not penned in ink, nor caught in rhyme,
But fluent in the pulse of time.
Every heartbeat, every sigh,
A verse that floats, then flutters by.
She doesn’t speak—she simply moves,
And in her silence, rhythm proves
That poetry is not just heard—
It’s seen, it’s felt, in every wordless word.
So watch her once, and you will see
The soul's own choreography—
Where grace and fire find devotion…
A living poem. Poetry in motion.
Love walks in like it’s always lived here—
barefoot, unapologetic,
dragging sunlight across the floor like a blanket
it refuses to fold.
It opens all the windows at once,
laughs too loud in the quiet moments,
starts naming the plants even though
they’re probably going to die anyway.
Love doesn’t ask permission.
It rewrites the furniture layout,
puts your favorite song on repeat
and says, “This one. This one forever.”
It leaves tea rings on the table.
It kisses your shoulder in passing.
It forgets the umbrella
but remembers your laugh exactly,
as if it were carved into its palms.
Love is not careful.
It overwaters the basil.
It cries during commercials.
It texts you at 2 a.m. just to say:
I couldn’t sleep. I thought of your face.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s relentless.
It is you,
showing up in everything I touch,
like static,
like sugar,
like I finally understand
what the songs were trying to say
this whole time.
A fixture of grief,
anchored where memory splits.
The quest unfolds in fog—
no path, just pulses
of unease mimicking direction.
Every thought incurs penalty.
Fear taxes breath.
Dread rewrites the map
before the journey begins.
An unseen impact
knocks the axis off center—
consciousness spirals,
fractured, repeating.
Focus becomes a casualty.
There are voices,
but they speak only in sanctions.
No comment.
No deviation.
No witness.
Even breath becomes strategic—
withheld, rationed,
used to mask retreat.
I speak in silence now.
Each word I don't say
becomes another wound
I have to learn to live around.
A single love will touch you with wings of light,
an eternal flame that dances in the depths of your soul,
it comes like a gentle storm, without signs or warnings,
and rewrites your destiny, bringing a longing that knows no bounds.
This love, like a deep and honest river,
melts our heart like wax under the full moon's rays,
humbles us before destiny with humility,
even if we believe ourselves to be titans on this ephemeral earth.
Without this love, life becomes an endless wasteland,
no matter how far we run, everything seems devoid of color,
and even if this love hides in the past,
its memory remains eternal, a wound that does not close.
O, supreme love, that has illuminated our soul with stars,
shown us what it means to lose and to find oneself,
and even if we wish to forget you, to erase you from our soul,
you are there, in every dream, in every echo of our heart.
For you, immortal love, are the dream that guided us,
you are the ray of sunshine that embraced us at dawn,
and even if time will shroud memories in mist,
you will remain eternal, love, in the heart that has lived you.
I leapt into the void,
a wanderer lost in the chaos of stars,
weightless, broken, seeking,
until her voice called me home.
She’s a strange kind of woman,
untamed yet steady,
a heartbeat in sync with the universe,
a soul that sings louder than silence.
Her laughter cuts through the haze,
a melody that binds what was shattered.
Her eyes—cosmic mirrors,
show me the pieces of myself I thought I’d lost.
I’m no longer drifting.
She is the gravity that anchors me,
the pulse that gives meaning to the stillness,
the fire that dances in the cold of the void.
Her spirit entwines with mine,
a song that rewrites existence,
eternal and unyielding,
resonating through time and space.
No matter the plane,
no matter the lifetime,
I will find her—
for her song is written in the stars,
and my soul knows every note by heart.
I am the tempest and the calm,
a hymn sung by fractured stars.
In my chaos lies creation,
a cosmos birthed in broken jars.
The universe whispers my name in riddles,
a melody only the wild can hear.
Each step I take rewrites the heavens,
turning despair into something clear.
They call it madness—this divine frenzy,
but I call it freedom wrapped in fire.
To dance on the edge of eternity’s void
and make it the heart of my desire.
It starts with a hum,
a thread unspooling through silence -
soft, sure, and annoyingly insistent,
like the world is whispering
secrets it’s dared me to misunderstand.
The first echo hits,
ricocheting off the walls,
and suddenly this isn’t just a room -
it’s a kaleidoscope of sound,
a ripple of moments reborn,
sharper, louder,
more alive than their beginnings.
Your laugh?
A sparkler snapping against dusk.
My words?
Half-forgotten confetti,
colouring the corners where truth hides.
Truth, after all, is always shy
until you catch it staring back.
Reality twists,
shuffles its cards,
pulls an ace out of its sleeve,
then smirks like it planned this all along.
The echo rewrites everything -
makes shadows dance like they’ve known the steps forever,
makes silence flirt like it’s in control,
but you know it’s just guessing too.
And when it fades?
It doesn’t leave us empty -
it leaves us cradling shapes
we can’t quite name yet,
hands full of questions
that glow like lanterns -
flickering, daring us to follow,
only to vanish when we get too close.
We laugh anyway,
lost in the dark,
as if it was the plan all along.
China has many that believe in Jesus
Some are underground and move
Around by the leading of the Holy Spirit
In the past the Lord called Watchman Nee
And as a result many after him
Fell to their knees and praised God but today
China has committed a diabolical error
By rewriting the Bible and
Trying to make Jesus a murderer
The terror will be seen in their land!
God’s promises are real and revelations
Will transform the land
Jesus cannot be stopped in China
He will save many Chinese individuals
China has many that believe in Jesus
Some are underground and move
Around by the leading of the Holy Spirit
Revelation 22: 18-19
18 I warn everyone who hears the words of the prophecy of this book: if anyone adds to them, God will add to him the plagues described in this book, 19 and if anyone takes away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God will take away his share in the tree of life and in the holy city, which are described in this book.
Id love to write a poem that rewrites history
that unlocks consciousness
that speaks from an universal experience
that feels the rage of love
and the longing of lost
Id love to write a poem that doesnt do anything
that lingers in between “ahead of its time” and a “classic”
it hangs on the dusty shelf, misunderstood or untouched
it locks in on the misfortunate muses and never expels a rhythm or rhyme
Id love to write a poem that reads itself
(Author’s note: This poem is a humorous look at how the pandemic changed our technology, our relationships, and maybe even our spiritual quests.)
God’s on Mute
By Mark D. Stucky
We forgot how to talk
during the pandemic.
Glitches often bedeviled us,
and we erratically conversed.
Technology was cursed
but also godsent.
We had to learn new words
and new meanings of words
when Zoom burst from obscurity
to overnight ubiquity,
helping to (almost) satisfy
our lonely souls inside.
And now I want to Zoom with God,
typing questions in the chat box
because He seems to be on mute
and His camera is turned off.
But I want to see the face of God
and take screen selfies of Him with me
to start a Facebook killer meme
and blow up Instagram and Twitter.
Pray tell where I can find and click
a divine invitation link!
(First published with the title “On Mute” in Bearings Online, 30 Nov. 2022. See also my poems “Missing: God Incarnate,” “The Ascension (with Rewrites),” and “God Around the Corner.”)
(Photo by Chris Montgomery on Unsplash.com.)
To you, Geoffrey, congratulation
On your gladdening Graduation
Well-deserved: the standing ovation:
You are ready to serve your nation….
However, I fear, from your bedroom,
As you wait for the right job to loom!
Spurious has been the worshipped oil boom,
A compatriot leaning on it – Doom!
Now, to face it, one shapes one’s future,
Defeats a drag-me-down subculture,
Adds refreshingly to one’s stature,
Story rewrites and paints new picture…
How to deal with eyes for the TV,
Each day to some firm with your CV,
Hopes fastening on future PV:
Some patients are treated no IV…
I have said but part of all the things,
The main point: A Graduate tries hand swings;
In his ears I-can-open-doors rings…
Forever above Angels with wings.
We all have that one sibling who has to have the attention, right?
I am a laid-back Tom, and happy without attention, day and night.
My sister Tallahassee is one who needs to delight a room.
Full of strangers or whoever, but she has never found a groom.
Tallahassee is always hounding me to put myself on social media.
I cannot imagine why I would have to, I have six litters to already feed-ee-ah.
It is easier to let her take my photograph than argue, so I do.
Let’s have your best side, she tells me, and bat your eyes of blue.
Handsome Tom. Seeks Casual Lady friend with warm beds.
Likes to walk in the park, chase mice down alleys and bite off heads.
Don’t put that! I tell her; they’ll know I like to eat the best part!
That would not be the way to any feline’s meowing heart!
So she rewrites it and takes the photo several ways and positions.
She also rewrites my ad, I think we’re on the sixteenth composition.
The funniest part of all to me is that on the photo she uploaded.
She is peering into the camera like a voyeur who exploded!
Rain-steps publish worms,
wriggles scribe themselves.
The thrown thud of a newspaper
punctuates the wet and written.
Sparrows scrawl and scrabble,
foraging starlings attack the earth
sounds squirm up,
muddy scripts are picked at, edited
a door slams,
the ground rewrites itself.
He beguiled me
with his smile.........
Meanwhile:
Its a struggle to write;
inspite on my mind
being all uptight
and alight
with excitement
It's a plight
frought with
delight
when applied
to provide sight
that ignites
being psyched
to new heights
and reunites
rewrites
priced into bytes
dispite
providing a guide
to decide
and set aside
my writing style...
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