The street life is miserable,
But somehow we romanticize.
Dreaming of making it out,
Reminiscing with the guys.
Some didn't make it,
Couldn't focus on the prize.
Others didn't see it
When it was right in front of their eyes.
Some chose death,
Others went to jails.
Ones that ain't make it out
Live in their own hell.
I finally saw the light,
The other side of life:
Great home, great kids,
And a great wife.
poets believe love is iridescent
a comforting lullaby, tucked in tight
children romanticize stolen moments
a princess awaiting her shining knight
the Queen sees her marriage as a power
a guarantee of where loyalty lies
the jester laughs at the chains around her
waiting for the day when royalty dies
lovers see Aphrodite’s true nature
for love is not a heartfelt bouquet
it doesn’t have a sugary flavor
it’s a china bowl; with new cracks each day
Forgiveness knows that her words are the glue
she patches the fractures between the two
Yours is written by love only a Mom can reveal
Thanks for engraving such in my heart
Always reminding me of your awesome presence…
Oh, I dearly miss you.
With gratitude, I wear your handwriting
Ceaselessly showing your trademark of care
Keeping me mindful now of my motherly roles…
Oh, I long for your counsel.
Nostalgic, never can I resist the bursting scenes
of your teaching pursuit-tenacity as you made me write the ABC
midst the gripping tenderness of your directive hand...
Oh, I can't forget your unique way of editing my essays...
Mother, thanks for letting me wear your handwriting
manifesting your elegant cursive style
while I carry on the legacy of your compassionate* expression
devoid of artificial intelligence-stain along authentic impartation of lovingkindness.
*Isaiah 49:15 Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I (God) not forget thee.
April 25, 2026
Honorable Mention, "Romanticize the Pulse" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Ink Empress; judged on 5/5/2026
It is not merely blood that moves,
A rushing, quiet river in the wrist,
But time’s own cadence, rhythmic, absolute,
A sudden, startled joy that I have missed.
I trace the map of veins, a slender road,
And watch the crimson tide begin to rush,
A silent drummer in the quiet night,
Bringing the noisy world to a solemn hush.
So let us take a moment, soft and slow,
To feel the thrumming, the vital, living tide,
And romanticize the pulse, a sacred drum,
That carries all the love I hold inside.
It is the only dance that does not end,
A fragile, perfect tempo we are given—
A heartbeat’s song, a soft, insistent whisper,
That turns this mortal flesh into a heaven.
So lay your hand upon the quiet vein,
And know that we are here, entirely free,
This steady, thrumming life is but a pledge—
A song of you, and a song of me.
In the suburbs, piles of leaves
Sit waiting on the street,
The blowers having gathered them
In mounds, all nice and neat.
A gust of wind may carry some,
Or possibly a child
Who couldn’t quite resist the urge
To tap his inner wild.
But once a week, a truck comes by
And with its giant hose,
It sucks that foliage from the road
To someplace no one knows.
When I was young, the leaves were raked
And then were set aflame,
That sweet aroma spelling “fall”
In memory’s acclaim.
They vanished in a dust of ash
As heavenward they’d rise
Along with childhood’s fading hold
We’d once romanticize.
There are some who
all live,
and some, who all
write --
Poetry can be happy
compromise --
One can both live
and Romanticize
Though the Heart
will always play
Fool to the Heart....
To Tantalize with Skirt
To Jiggle and Giggle
To Romanticize and Flirt
Too Fickle with Wiggle
To Fantasize 'bout Skirt
No Jiggle and Giggle
To Dehumanize and Hurt
No Pickle to Wiggle
He's a flirt with his anxieties,
Collecting tauted nerves.
She's a pen who haunts his remedies,
And with these words she serves.
He'll romanticize the painful,
And unto pleasure, gain.
Where a page was turned to tar,
With her baneful, poisoned stain.
All that glitters looks amiss,
While they write together sin.
Whereby lovers part by kiss,
Muses part by apitoxin.
death isn’t some big affair
like in the movies
they romanticize that
there is no music
swelling in the background
no heartfelt words or gifts
or sudden miracles of life
it’s just sad.
deep, heavy sadness
that digs so far into you that
you feel like you’ll never get it off
sadness that seeps into your skin
until no amount of scrubbing
under hot water can get it out
sadness that becomes a part of you
sadness that becomes you.
death isn’t some big affair
it’s just sad.
I romanticize you.
No color will change the portrait I have painted of you in my mind.
You could be black and white and still to me you are intricately dynamic.
Your eyes are the window in which I feel gorgeously presented.
Your soul is a breath of fresh air, something someone might only get to touch once in their whole lonely life.
Look at you.
I mean really look and see how wonderfully made and sculpted you are.
My dear, you are art in the simplest way.
I looked at the trees.
They moved with the birds, while they chirped and laughed.
Shutting the door, my hand shaking from former caffeine.
I heard music from my room.
It stopped.
My speaker died.
The blinds let the light in and my room smelled good,
like laundry in the morning.
My skin was easy today and my lips soft.
The house was still and my heart at peace.
Days were content and long.
Clean, Coffee, Scripture, Makeup, Work.
My routine is simple.
The only problem,
I am alone.
Our hearts romanticize the vagabond.
To walk away from all that brings you down.
It’s true we’re free to get up and be gone.
In search of new horizons to be found.
Always snipping at the ties that bind us
And doing all you would just as you may.
Worries can all just be left behind us.
‘Cause in the morn we simply walk away.
Dodging all responsibilities now.
There’s nothing holds you down or brings you back.
Thinking and just doing as you please now.
All you might need you carry in your pack.
But this, my curse, my cross: to always roam…
Cannot you feel my loss: O! Where is home?
What do you romanticize when there is no beauty left?
There are no ponds to sit beside
There are no trees for me to write beneath
I haven't heard a bird sing to me in what feels like a decade
The light pollution has clouded my eyes and I'm afraid that if it ever clears I'll see this place for what it is and become so
Ten pound weights,
of encouragement,
uplifting smiles,
curl,
extend,
as fingers unwind,
and
romanticize.
Felicitous lips,
the story of joy
explored
with
double dutch
jump.
Flickers of
childhood light,
that of
a born again
saint.
Cash into my hands,
at Christmas time,
as my smile
made her smile.
I passed on
the bills
to my child,
who needed it more.
Pass your smile
around the world;
the pine lit up
with ethereal light.
Humans
can be rich
and kind.
It seems an eternity, waiting
for the cows to come home.
They never will, and so why
do I wait so long to take a hard look at myself?
Mirrored reflections caught in the bourbon glass,
fractured and foggy.
We drank more than our share last night,
and my memory fell down the stairs,
rolling with the bottles,
bruised,
yet always out of reach,
a blue moon waning in the distance.
The 1960s hover,
phantoms of a past we romanticize,
awaiting their return as if
a forgotten song might suddenly play,
but we can never go back,
to flower power,
to protests in the park,
to nights where anything seemed possible.
Lost in the haze of our youth.
I await their return other things,
like an old friend who swore to come back,
but never did.
Promises dissolving ithinvair,
like smoke rings we blew into the night sky.
And here I stand,
waiting,
for the cows that never come home,
for the past that never repeats,
for the moment I finally look,
deep into my own eyes,
and see not what was,
but what is,
and what might be.
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