Rise, quiet sisters, knit of silver fire,
Reach through the dark where ancient shadows cling,
Repeat the breath, the cadence of desire,
Ring out the bowl, the timeless offering,
Renew the soil, the water, and the wire,
Reveal the sacred shape of everything,
Return the soul to where the stars conspire.
many rituals,
from birth till the death
breath folds each goodbye.
Imitated feast-
ceremonies choking on fear
shrinking from them.
shame of the ceremony
when mandop lacks pomp and guests,
no minister (or M.L.A) comes.
ashamed of parent's death
if ceremonies not grand
although not fed (him) well.
ashamed at his own death
while rites are not made grand
before the (watching ) people.
I keep a notebook open
to the quiet hours of the day—
a place where dust motes drift
like unhurried thoughts,
where the clatter of the city
softens into something almost kind.
Here, even the smallest things
learn to speak:
a chipped mug,
a cold window,
the faint hum of a neighbour’s radio.
I write them down
to see what I’ve been missing—
to remind myself
that the world is still whispering,
even when I forget to listen.
Generations have come and gone
Knowledge and wisdom as treasures passed down
Sacred rites and rituals immortalized
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
I pity thy facade.
Caked layers of makeup.
Two faces, twice the work.
Masking. Hiding. Deceit.
Outward lie.
Apply. Shroud.
Cloak. Comply.
Deny tears.
Features die.
* 'The Pirouette Poetry Contest'
* Sponsored by: Suzette Richards
* Entered on: 09/05/2025
I fell in love with a dangerous man,
a man whose shadow walked ahead of him,
whose eyes carried the silence
of graves unmarked.
He spoke in the language of fire,
his whispers smelt of blood and incense,
and when he touched me,
I felt the trembling of spirits
too ancient to name.
His love was not tender
it was sacrifice,
it was ritual,
it was the smoke curling from midnight altars
where I stood trembling,
offering my heart
like the lamb that bleeds without protest.
I should have run
but desire bound me tighter than rope,
drawn to his darkness
as if my soul was already promised.
Now, when the moon rises,
I hear his chants in my veins,
and the night itself bends
to the memory of his hands.
To love him was to be devoured,
to drown in a river
where no prayers reach the surface.
And yet...
even in the ruin of myself,
I ache for him still,
for the man of rituals
who taught me that love
can taste like death
and still be sweeter than life.??
I have rituals
for the first day of class
like a superstitious athlete
they get me into a good frame of mind
where I feel like a juggernaut who has total agency
and I don’t need to seek validation
It’s a moment in time
I have all my books—stacked on my desk
they look serious—very nuts and bolts
I’ve beaten the syllabuses to death
to try to figure out where my power lies
learning is all energy, it’s a marathon
it’s hard to sustain that for the entire semester
so not switching off, now and then, is unrealistic
Still, I’m comfy in in a classroom (I’m a senior)
Good students are just a little weird.
I say hello to the moon so she won’t feel alone
I say ‘cheers,” before taking a shot of mouthwash.
If I lose my ID, my lucky pencil or something, I call out, “treasure hunt!”
When treating everyone to grubHub I ask, ‘the usual?’ When we’re done I ask, ‘how was everything this evening?’
If I see a random girl looking fabulous, I tell her, because if I get complimented, I think about it for a week.
.
.
A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory
They, the idols who have the right given by you to dispose of your own soul, offer to admire their wise reflections, but do not offer to share their wisdom with them. They don't want you to be on the same level of insight. This is the real culture, derived from the word "cult" - you are allowed to admire, but you cannot touch it, or even come too close. It's a temple value, and it's not for everyone. Only for initiates who know the unwritten rules and rituals. Protected by the state, this plug is invisibly nailed to every object of worship, be it music or painting. But the state is not the best custodian, so only the maniac collectors can provide genuine guarantees of safety that last as long as they are alive. When there are no passionate lovers, both passion and its once adored objects disappear.
Have you ever pretended a guy was interesting?
Have you slow danced and let him sniff you up close?
I gives you somewhere to go, if you decide to.
Or given a little kiss—nothing slutty in that.
You know, a 'person' isn’t a good kisser - it takes two.
I’m not talking about me, of course.
There’s a two-way interrogation going on
complete with our own internal narratives
—we reenact it’s rituals in the strangest places
like quiet libraries or the lerch and spin of a dance club
we process by analogy and approximation and it works
until it doesn’t, like cold water poured into a glass.
Then we settle back into the dull rhythms of study
I’m not talking about me, of course.
.
.
Songs for this:
Loveland by The Blenders
Human Nature by Mitchell Brunings
What stemmed from a mystic romantic tale
The Lack of love and endearment inspires me
Nothing other then this another classic speak
In the tone of a voice one wants to hear
soothing and sensual the perfection of study
Muddy road, the tracks of a wobbling wheel
brisk chilly evening winds glazing the tempered feel
Glistening skies it's Christmas Eve
Loneliness my warm blanket a sweetened confection for me to eat
Filled with sunny day rituals,
we are a sampling of the craft;
The bourgeoisie will call us fools,
filled with sunny day rituals;
Magical keys and safety tools,
duplicitous sides come off daft;
Filled with sunny day rituals,
we are a sampling of the craft.
They forbid my travels, and money transfers
A hostage of criminal times
To all that is negative I am immersed
Expectedly drowning in wine
You are lucky to stay at the positive side
It’s an obvious thing to admit
A sort of dialectical suiside
Which I often forget to commit
Exhausted, I’m lying in bed the whole day
Eyes closed, but I’m not sleeping
It’s the rehearsal of rest and I play
My part, till the darkness creeps in
Then I see multicoloured ripples
Through the water they drift me away
The moleculas dance happy rituals
Escourt me to where I should lay.
Love Letter
Courting a Black Widow Spider
I do admire your knitting skills
The sight of your cobweb fills me with thrills
Your hourglass figure glowing red
has never gripped my heart with dread
The sight of you a passion rare instills
So I could never believe, as I view fresh kills
that the day we wed, I’ll be next day’s meals
the nuclear snakes
slither into disaster
warheads waiting
in the dithering wings
~~~!~~~X~~~#~~~>>>
light explodes
darkness erupts
fiery projectiles
obliterate without mercy
the reptilian warlords
fumble through flames
apocalypse waiting
amid withering declarations
movie about
Preparing the dead
Was moving
In so many ways
It celebrates life
And the beauty contained
As a heart wrending
Story relays
My favorite scene
Is the one
Where they feast
After closing up shop for the day
As one of the
Leading men
Gorges himself
He looks at his partner to say
I hate myself !
The embracing of
Life so voraciously
After dealing with death
And it's sting
Fills the viewer
With hope
As for answers they grope
As to if their own lives mean a thing
Though it's written
That we
On the scales
Are mere dust
This observation
I've
Come to trust
He sees me!
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