'Tis true, noble fruit, green or red,
you'd rather be alive than dead,
but when cruel fate says you must die,
you do so, proudly, for apple pie.
When that ultimate price is paid,
and I solemnly apply the blade -
oh, the horrifying pain and fright,
as you endure this culinary rite.
Try to think of it as fruitful fun,
smeared with nutmeg and cinnamon,
your sliced up body laid in a bed
of flour for pastry, not for bread.
Have you been prepared for what's in store
when I bend to close the oven door?
In an hour, I'll fork you and you'll scream,
your fragrance escaping then as steam.
Your tale ends - you meet your final fate,
covered up with ice-cream on my plate.
A tea bag in the ocean,
small, fragile, trembling in vastness,
its string a whisper,
its paper skin thin against the tide.
It carries a world of fragrance within,
spices and leaves gathered from distant hills,
yet when cast into infinity
its essence bleeds gently, unseen,
lost to the salt and surge.
The ocean does not change—
its roar unmoved, its deep unshaken—
but the tea bag, emptied of itself,
becomes a ghost of what it was.
And still, there is a quiet beauty:
the courage of the small
meeting the enormity of the endless,
the offering of all it holds,
though the waves may never taste it.
To give, even if unnoticed,
to dissolve, even if forgotten,
to color a sea that cannot be colored,
and yet still try,
is to become a living sacrifice,
holy and acceptable
to
God
Broken cries diluted the still waters
A mothers pain as she prepares a better life for her daughter
Her bones ached with exhaustion
Her fractured breathing heavy with guilt
Buy she knew this was the right decision
She wraps her baby in a blanket made of love and sacrifice
She hoped these feelings would be carried into her child's next life
I'm the early morn before the rising of the sun
She sung lullabies from her mother She learned
Before giving her only child a tender kiss on her forehead
Then ending her last moment with a hug
Her child's cries drowned out by the silence of freedom
Her child sunk to her watery grave
Protected from ever becoming a slave
She was born to be free
And that all her mother ever wanted her to be
Her love for her daughter transcended time
She felt a hole in her chest
As if she had been hit with a bullet
But she would do it again if it protected her daughter from enslavement
Even if it meant the loss of her child would break her
But a mother love is selfless
It's why her daughter kanoa had to be let go
Her name important, her name meant the 'free one'
Her daughter the epitome of freedom
With all the Gods who've been and gone
religiously believed in and prayed upon
for sure Thor was but one
but who'll be the next to come along
will we sing praises to him it or her
faithfully erect an edifice to edify
incense burn sacrifice virgins
bow down on our knees to deify
will fire and brimstone or flagellation
appear in the equation
with the promise of heaven
and/or eternal damnation
and aping man's superstition
followers will still flounder around
looking for what they know not
along with the herd awaiting 'The Word'
Today I learned
that being me
always here for you,
always yours in intimacy
was never enough.
I did not give you
the peace your soul was searching for.
It shatters my heart…
how did we come to this?
I learned today
you were looking for comfort
in someone else’s words,
and all this time
I thought I was your world.
Have I taken you for granted?
Was it my fault all along?
I gave everything I had,
but maybe I was giving
all the wrong things.
I love you so deeply
that sometimes I wonder…
If I can’t make you happy,
maybe I should let you go.
Maybe if I were with someone
I didn’t love,
I wouldn’t weigh on his soul.
And you..
you’d be with someone
who doesn’t love you like I do,
but maybe
she’d give you peace.
And then…
we would both have peace.
But would I ever be happy?
If I found peace
and you found peace…
does that truly
mean happiness?
She might have painted the sea—
or a golden field of wheat
beneath a hazy summer sky—
but he took her brushes,
left the bristles splayed,
the paints dried out,
and the turpentine cloudy.
And though she said nothing,
her easel disappeared one day
like a wispy cloud no one missed.
After that,
she painted nothing but dinner.
They had imagined themselves
sharing a studio but
he needed all the mirrors,
so she became one—
reflecting his genius,
and tilting her angles
to catch his best light—
sitting quiet in the corners,
while her palette faded slowly
beneath his brilliance.
She never called it giving up—
just life, unfolding.
Maybe she took comfort
in recipes, in the hush
of rising dough,
in setting the table just so.
But I wonder if sometimes,
she’d pass the studio
and something nameless would
tighten in her throat—
not quite regret,
not quite peace.
Perhaps both.
One day a year to mark a sacrifice profound
One day a year to visit the ground
One day a year for the bugle to sound
One day a year a nation’s memory is found
Hardly enough for the terrible cost
Hardly enough for the lives that were lost
One day a year for the flags to adorn
One day a year the fallen to mourn
One day a year that honors our fallen
One day a year the nation is all in
Hardly enough for those left behind
Hardly enough is just being kind
Each day of the year they manned the wall
Each day of the year they served through it all
Each day of the year standing brave and tall
Each day of the year until the final fall
One day of the year to remember the valor
Hardly enough when measured by the pallor
Of the faces who bled and the families who suffer
So one day a year
One day a year
One day a year
Is hardly enough for
Duty
Honor
Sacrifice
Remember it all and never forget
For one day a year is all that they get
Looking at her is like
a grainy old romance
warped in a bathroom mirror—
time distorts in her footsteps.
She’s always smiling,
even when tears circle in her eyes.
Only on certain nights will she
pull off the mask
and fracture in hush, splintering inward.
She speaks little—
perhaps the quietest soul I’ve known.
Her days revolve around his breath,
his smile her only pastime.
Being loved by her
is like being held by fire—
the scorching hug will
drain oxygen from lungs,
but only because
going all in is her only form of love.
I envy the one she loves, but I am
not, no. I am her—
the ember of romantics,
too charred to be remembered.
I’ve always dreamed of painting
with fire—
lash the canvas with embers,
watch the smoldering orange spread,
chasing white into flame—
before my chaos dies into silence.
It feels natural, this
need to see my art burn—
they’re not complete, not before
the charred ink is bathed in heat.
I paint with alcohol then
ignite—
so my work is no longer
just raven lines on pale paper;
so I can burn with the words—
and live as silence.
R-eap
O-r
V-ictory,
E-ither
L-ets
Y-ou
N-icely
C-hase
R-eward
U-nder
Z-enith
©bfa051325
Monocrostic (Birthday of Rovelyn G. Cruz)
They came with dust on their boots and a morning star,
Shadows of boyhood still clinging to their shoulders—
They were sons of the land, faces bright with the dew,
Carrying small, cherished photographs in their breast pockets.
They rose with the sun’s trumpet call at dawn,
A summons to arms, to fear, to death—
Yet they did not tremble,
They carried the burden like a hymn on their lips.
Mothers with hands trembling at kitchen sinks
Counted each day as an offering—
Each letter a balm, each silence a wound.
Their prayers rose with the smoke of factory chimneys.
The beaches were gardens of iron and flame,
Where the sea’s voice met the cry of youth—
The soil drank of their blood,
And the wind carried the story homeward.
O Freedom—your price is the soft hush of sacrifice,
The echo of a last goodbye in the night—
They sleep in quiet fields now,
Their names folded in the flag’s bright embrace.
Pride blooms in the hearts of those they left behind—
A tender ache, a candle that will not be quenched.
We walk in their footsteps, grateful and small,
Ever humbled by the price they paid for us all.
An old man once said:
Freedom isn’t free
As a child, I grew up,
never understanding those words.
As an adult, I learned,
the tree of freedom is watered with blood.
I thought we had paid enough.
But as trees wither without water,
so does freedom without its tribute.
As such I hoped,
we could pay with sweat and duty.
But once again-we choose red...
Inspired by Bob Dylan's "Mississippi"
I was the backbone of your dream—
ribs shaped into beams,
my blood seeping slow,
cementing your tower’s base.
You promised a sky of stars,
a rise beyond all shadows—
but I was just a ghost
etched in your blueprint,
a whisper beneath your tower.
We built forever on lies,
stacking stones on my shoulders—
I was your ground,
your silent sacrifice,
the shadow no one names.
You spoke of freedom—
but all I felt was the weight,
a hollow echo in my bones.
You spoke of love—
and I swallowed the silence
you left behind.
Now the dream is dust,
the sky a fractured lie,
and I stand—
an empty scaffold,
a ruin in the wind.
You vanished in fire—
and I’m left to fall.
Duty calls from valleys deep and wide,
Wide like hearts where brave resolve does bide.
Bide the storms, through fire and endless rain,
Rain of trials met with a calm refrain.
Refrain from fear when darkness clouds the sky,
Sky holds hope where eagles dare to fly.
Fly with honor carved in steel and soul,
Soul forged firm in sacrifice and role.
Role of country’s shield in battle’s fire,
Fire of freedom fed by hearts’ desire.
Desire to serve with valor, strong and true,
True to flags in red and white and blue.
Blue, the banner waving high above,
Above all stands their country, duty, and love.
© Dr. Joseph S. Spence, Sr., USA (Epulaeryu Master). All Rights Reserved (May 25, 2025).
On board
in corners of my mind
forfeit never, it’s
c a
s
t l
e
i n
g
sacrifices for queen's gambit
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