Ere the poem can claim it’s place,
comes first the devoted reader of my lines;
that trusted someone,
that extra set of eyes,
who walks among the words of rhyme,
who reads aloud the whims I wrote,
the unfinished thought,
the missing phrase,
the quiet inflection lingering
where my instincts failed to go.
When, or where to breathe,
to pause, to rewrite.
How, or when to arrive
where the poem itself
strives to go;
how to be a portal
in the link from you to me,
the calm assurance
my wandering verse will know
when it’s truly
found its end.
Written: August 18, 2026, for This Week's Poetry Challenge: No Letter E
****************
I long to find my locus in this vast world,
to curl inward and drift into dusk.
Lost, I miss all that is going on—
sobs scar my nights—now a ritual of ruin.
If I find a nap, I stir to dawn asking why,
all I wish: a warm, bright grin in bloom.
Trust runs thin—too many masks fall off,
nothing stays until truth is shown.
Cold tools bring a sharp sting,
but living cuts past all skin.
To cling or to quit—
both bring pain from within.
To long for a soul,
to watch that soul walk with that girl—
a sharp twist in my gut for what is not,
I clutch my truth, my passion, and try to talk.
My words miss, fall, go still,
what now?
To hold or to drop?
Both hurt, both haunt.
Thus, I sustain;
I hold you within my soul,
but it bursts my spirit—
all for a flash of junction,
a glint, a touch.
baptismal waters
anoint our first and last breaths
another folly
the pen hovered over the page,
unsure.
then a sentence arrived
shy, but determined~
a small creature swimming out of the ink.
Coffee
With a splash of cream
Delightful
I lie to myself and say I love the taste
I don’t
It’s alright
Pretty good, even
But I drink it just because
It keeps the day moving anyway
Then my fingertips smell like it
Earthy and dry
The day hasn't gone any faster at all
But it is something to do
Until one day I retire
And then I'll drink coffee for no reason at all
The day has drained my soul; there's no time left to wait,
I slap the kettle lever, fire the engine high.
I need a rescue mission for my current state,
and grab the grey and white ceramic of my eye.
My absolute favourite mug. The water starts to roar,
It sounds like trouble bubbling but it's just the start.
The Rooibos bag goes in, those lazy tannins pour,
A slow, dark comfort creeping right into my heart.
But wait-where is the ginger? Panicked, at top speed,
I grab my mini grater, shredding till it hurts.
That fiery, fresh root is the remedy I need,
Because a bit of ginger always sparks and flirts,
Then boom - raw honey! Heaven drops into the chill,
with floating spicy to titillate and thrill.
Rooibos tea is a family favourite in South African homes.
The Small Print of the Black Mass
To steal the power from the newly dead,
Through blackened magic where the demons tread,
You beckon the spirit from the darkest plane,
And feast on the flesh to assume its reign.
From the dirt of the grave, the monsters shout:
"Feed me! Feed me!" as the lights go out.
The flesh turns to liquid, it slithers right down,
To grant you the strength of a forbidden crown.
But a consumed spirit will fight to be free,
Unless you can bind it where no one can see.
So you drag the ghost to the deepest abyss,
And curse it with crimes in the dark's prejudice.
You lock it away in a chamber of screams,
To rot in the static of shattered dreams.
Yet the path to this knowledge is steep and unkind:
You must enter hell's back door and lock it behind.
You hide the key in a desolate place,
And pray that a righteous hand leaves no trace.
For the Book of Sin doesn't offer a lie
The small print catches the arrogant eye:
The contract is absolute, heavy, and cold,
A willing soul, and a payment in gold.
Or a pillar of salt you will turn.
Every morning rain or shine,
she has breakfast with her flock.
The seasons change and
each has their peculiarities.
Still her faithful companions
visit daily at the appointed hour.
She leaves them seeds so they'll know
they're always welcome.
She hopes they'll come this spring
to build their nests within her flower garden.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Hail, heavy avalanche of milky whiteness.
A soft mountain moving in the dark.
Yumpy, your pale mass defies gravity.
Midnight strikes, and the thunder begins.
The floorboards groan beneath your charge.
Four paws drum a chaotic rhythm.
Sleep flees before your blinding furriness.
You hunt ghosts while the world rests.
Hoodoos and whatsits tremble at your pounce
Beneath the moon, a fat phantom flies.
You reject the quiet, gentle night.
A restless spirit wrapped in creamy fluff.
My closed eyes watch you blur past.
While chase scenes envelop my dreams.
Ritual for prosperity
"Golden cord, bright and bold,
Turn my efforts into gold.
Tie the luck and lock it fast,
Make this newfound plenty last.
Negative tides must now recede,
Success is sown in every bead."
Best written and kept by thread
The Hollow Toll of Hell
Old witch plucked out every hair
To weave her wicked snares.
But a deal demands a spirit pure,
And hers was beyond repair.
She traded a thumb, she traded an eye,
Yet still she paraded on
Seeking the key for the gate, the hidden escape,
Before the rise of dawn.
With nothing left of flesh or bone,
No gold left to toll,
She reached the brink and paid the price:
The sale of her hollow soul.
I’ll sit in a cafe with a tea and a grin,
Wondering which version of "Me" should begin.
Do I lead with the humour? The hobby? The scar?
Or just pray they don’t mention their favorite car?
It’s a gamble, a circus, a strange little dance,
A marathon sprint for a glimmer of chance.
But here goes the plunge—let the madness commence,
I’m back in the market (and losing my sense).
Note to self:
If they ask if you're "adventurous" on the first date,
remember that "trying a new brand of cereal" does not count as a personality trait.
A teen aesthete
wanders to the soul bartering crossroads
down from where the bus let off.
Gathering weeds and stray flowers
of windblown cemetery seeds.
To make a shrine, self inspired,
at the wayside of God.
To lend by ritual, and evocation
the passage of their development
lonely and gifted.
Shrugging off the ubiquitous pack
and taking from within; magical finds
discovered during cherished playtimes.
Collected in a self-adorned shoe box.
Things gleaned from treasure hunts
and fantastic pursuits.
A cache of light:
cat's eye marbles, chandelier crystals,
blue, clear, and green, sea glass
rolled and shaped by cousin sands.
Dull till spit wetted, salt licked.
By wave defying bravery
a pluck of pebble or sunny glimmer.
Run to Mom for her glamor, and approval.
Brought home in playful pockets
from beaches and picnics.
Now artfully laid in tearful grief.
Creating a mosaic of introspection.
The last to set in place
a paint chipped, wooden, geometric
puzzle piece.
An icon of fractured lullabies.
A dream ending; bare feet,
wet pajamas, and a long car ride.
Frangelica looked forward to reading.
Her favourite storybooks exuded fantasy and magic.
She'd be transported into dreamland.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2026
Mary rushed out of bed.
She loved to feed the chickens most.
She'd collect all their eggs.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2026
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