The Riddle
We live separate lives: one when we’re awake, which is
the one in which the devil partakes and to whom we pay our dues,
and the other is when we’re asleep, where we pray God to rest
our souls in peaceful bliss, as we exit reality and enter dreamland
or vice versa, depending on one’s beliefs, superstitions, or perspective.
And while in the latter, I conjured up myself eating in a soup kitchen
when I overheard one person say to another, in a convincing, intellectual way,
“Don’t feed ‘em too much, or else they’ll get fat and lazy,
but the chickens, let ‘em get fat: that’ll make for a better broth.”
Naturally, fat, lazy, farm-raised chickens make for a better broth,
and so I looked at my reflection in the window and conjectured
that it couldn’t be me they were referring to in this establishment.
And that was the gist of what I could remember when I awoke, but I
could hear the devil laughing because I didn’t understand the riddle.
Knock
Knock
Who's there
The cornerstone
The cornerstone who
The cornerstone
That doesn't have any flaws
He's the foundation of it all
When I am weak he makes me strong
His enemies can never make his kingdom fall
The cornerstone is JESUS CHRIST
Until you have - no,
I mean no hope at all
Left to cling unto;
That’s when you will know,
You’ve got only to fall
Or unleash anew
An unreal hunger
For determining your rise
Above reality.
Of being done younger,
When all seems of old, rough sighs -
Embrace actuality.
And that’s where strengths come
To realization: how strong
You can be as man,
As life dares succumb
Your unwavering quests lifelong -
Cum impromptu plan.
Written: November 3rd, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
************
winter roses stand
beauty is not warmth, but will~
to grow in quiet
snow burdens petals
not enough to break the stem~
just enough to coach
wind omits beauty
the rose still remembers, though~
how red riddles white
roots in ground frozen
whisper to the sleepy buds~
"pain is not the end."
sunlight, slim as thread
festoons the thorn with gold lace~
a crown for those brave
rose has no accent
its quiet song is louder~
than a thousand springs
Every woman's magic is in her cook,
For any man that pay not her due lurks trouble at nook.
“Strings”
We meet in the halfway light,
where love pretends to be casual.
You text first,
you hold me close,
you look at me like I’m still yours
and for a moment,
I almost believe it.
Then you ask,
“No strings attached, right?”
like the words don’t cut through me,
like you didn’t just wrap your arms around my heart
and then deny they were ever there.
I laugh it off,
because I’d rather keep this half-version of you
than risk losing you completely.
You show me you care
in the way you remember my favorite song,
in the way your hand lingers a second too long
but you never say it.
And I never ask.
You seem fine.
Maybe you are.
Maybe I’m the only one
still reading love between the pauses.
So I stay quiet,
pretending the ache is worth it,
tied up in invisible threads
you keep pretending not to see.
Nowadays, big boys do propose with Ring,
But real men do same as pregnancy spring...
Capability trusted;
Not to be readjusted
After both wedded, waiting what twists bring...
John Deere and the Lady and the Swan
Passed in front of view
And I saw neither John
Nor the Deer nor the Lady
Nor the Swan
And I knew something
Wasn’t quite true.
As I looked, I heard
The spaces seemed to say
We’re undefeatable
Non repeatable
Eternal
Day
Even when there’s no material
When all human life
Seems lifeless and evil
Even when the mortal
Principle violates the rule
Even when the self
Becomes non-self and cruel
Still deer flow
Swans glow
And Johns marry ladies
On viewing Anthony Caro's sculpture “John Deere and the Lady and the Swan”
Constructionist sculpture using pieces of John Deere farm tractor pieces
Life rests solely on loss and luck's setup,
Tempting you to either win or mess up
Upon chances, stake boldly;
Not hoping the best coldly...
While holding onto heavenly backup.
I never walk away to give pressure,
Or separate pleasure and pain like thresher
Does to grains from husks and straw,
Nor to mock your breathing flaw,
But to take a class of trust's refresher.
.
if'n my thinks
'bout it
mine print digits
tap
and
i
spill
she me
her
dribble drip
dabble
daily
tap
He always wore that tattered coat,
always black, not a whiff of white.
Those mischievous eyes wore
such a sinister and obsessive gleam.
Were you that toymaker?
Or is it part of my neurotic imagery?
We know your toys can be perfect,
whether creating light or darkness.
Perhaps you are cunning,
or it is I who am so.
Yes, a so-and-so, with eyes
that have light or darkness.
So am I that toymaker,
with a gleam that I wear and bear?
Do I see you, then it, then myself?
Life can be a playroom, filled with colourful toys.
(8 Sep 2025)
I dread that day of pain.
I dread that fated day.
The heavens cried in pain.
The heavens wept in grief.
The people cried in tears.
The people cried in regret.
They all muttered together.
They all echoed together.
"This one was quiet promising, at last gone".
This one was quiet purposeful at last no more.
He was tall and slim.
He was bold and strong.
But fell to his own might.
But fell to his own depth.
Thus a man feared in Rome.
Thus a man reveared in Greece.
A man whose wisdom Babylon sought.
A man whose wisdom built persia.
Failed to see wisdom.
Failed to see reason.
He journey's this day a land of no return.
A battle lost from the unset.
But wait I hear screaming in the East.
I hear running in the West.
They all say he who was dead.
They all say has been reborn
The symbol of his existence rests on a child.
That fated scar.
To all who have ears.
To all who hear I tell this tale of "The Death and Rebirth".
Tomorrow is a promised day
All full of hope - fireworks array.
New paths to take - we're on our way
Choose this - choose that, our right of way.
We'll make things right what we've put off
Starting new things and lightly scoff
At why we've waited far too long
To sort out things where we belong.
The sun is bright and makes us feel
All is all right - a top card deal.
The rain clouds in the distance are
Of no concern - not ours by far.
And yet in mystic other ways
Tomorrow is a strange display
That causes us to scratch our head
And contradicts the things we've said:
Tomorrow is another day
It's just like any other day
But filled with things we can't explain
Or won't - to tax our addled brain.
We look, we see, we turn away
And rue the view from day to day.
We wonder how things got this way
Although we shroud the part we play.
Tomorrow's role - we can't defend -
"Creeps in this petty pace" my friend,
And yet that fact should not prevent
Some measure of accomplishment.
Today we'll look to other things -
for every gift tomorrow brings.
And, in this timely way to be
We'll recompense our sanity.
Beware the entrance to the hypogeum,
unless you want a visit with this lich.
Better me than a breath from a ghast,
blood-curdling is the last thing you hear.
Unless you want to visit with this lich,
walk quickly save your passing glance.
There is only bone sputum here, beware.
Better me than a breath from a ghast,
I am the one who will give you a riddle.
Catacomb inhabitants are bored, beware.
Blood-curdling is the last thing you hear,
ignore that loud undercurrent of curiosity.
There is only bone sputum here, beware.
Specific Types of Riddle Poems
Definition | What is Riddle in Poetry?