Written: August 6, 2026 for a contest sponsored by Nette Onclaud
Checked by HMS.COM: 7/7/7/5
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By those amber depths I'm bound,
Crimson sparks on gauzy ground,
Phoenix-wheel sings in my blood—
Sapped, I turn to night.
We traverse life seeking coloured feathers
desire silk gowns like fools dancing around
sand grains become ashes spoiling heather
stand we sapped witnesses to contexts found
Halfway we perceive abundant date palms
recall that we are here to live as whole
Almighty requesting kindness and alms
pass infernos with ignorant blind moles
Banish states of limbo lust and deceit
masses of souls circling as if in traps
immoderate are actions though seem neat
wade not in oblivion, find due maps
piano frequencies in harmonies
you will perceive, rejoicing amid ease
Stewing o’er surprise storms?
"Crying's not for me."
Wringing peace from panic’s plea,
welcome water’s whimsey.
Let the rain soak in…
revive sapped energy
restore grass to green
relax the worry-warts.
"Raindrops keep falling on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Crying's not for me
'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining
Because I'm free. Nothing's worrying me." B J Thomas
gusty torrid waves
no songbird waves in the wind
no waves from sapped leaves
specious waves of mirages
folks in waves running to pools
pigment change in leaves
ester smell of full blown fruits
heading toward fall
Place: 3rd
Midnight,
Hoots and despondent howls
From crevasses of puking earth prompt weakness at slumber
Webs!
They encircle the pin-line threads of silence, viciously muted,
Drawing porous patterns of maladroitness
Dawn,
Loose drops of old water, cusp-sized, blend with the rays of the
Rising sun, smelting our principles.
Images,
Lachrymose consternations congeal the blood in our brows,
Stifling the grace of blinking lashes
And we lose patience.
There’s a new-nurtured ruggedness
Which opens the snouts while we yawn.
In the distance,
Moonlight, sapped, means nothing with her downward gaze.
But the sound of maudlin drums hastens closer and nearer.
I am tired.
Usually in a “life has sapped itself out”
But that isn’t what this is about.
I. Am. Tired.
Of my stupid styrofoam smile
Squeaking under pressure all the while.
I am tired.
Of being walkedranmoppedraked overthroughon.
And of being treated as dumb spawn or clueless pawn.
I am calm, patient, quiet, KIND.
In the midst of grossness others spew against and on my mind.
However. My still hand does NOT mean
That I don’t find your way of existing obscene.
I may not lift my finger,
But damn does wavering will barely linger.
I am so tired of tulips and fields and eggshells.
I am ready for mortars, more ammo, some bombshells.
I am so tired of being the go-to-friend.
You know I’ll be there in the end.
I am so tired of “can I, may I, if it’s not too much”
After a while, doesn’t tired become the crutch?
Tired, exhausted, drained, and used.
Perhaps from the next I must recuse
Myself not because interests conflicted,
But rather because you don’t deserve a finger lifted.
I am so tired of being my warmth of fiery nice.
I’m so tempted to just let it all go.
Be discompassionate ice.
With our soul’s valleys
watered with God’s wet spirit,
and his healing love,
be as trees of divine sap
sagely rooted in his work:-
Written: April 12, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley
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You were not entirely missed
Unwinding under shade of woods
reclining on a playground bench
sagged, sapped, and aged knees
glancing at a spewed limestone
Spotted lying on the ground
limestone was not a mountain
separating you from my character
It's just something on earth
It calls for your attention
We are waiting for sunrise
both at night and daylight
deep down in concept, drawn
security guards at the gate
sitting here, quietly, we wait.
When the dismal darkness of the deceivers' camp
overwhelms and I have deserted the way,
a harsh winter of doubt governs cold and damp.
When conniving, selfish men parade and prey,
despair grips me tight with disapproval's stamp.
My candle is dimmed down inviting their waylay.
My deafened ears cannot hear the Lord's voice;
my blinded eyes are quick to make the wrong choce.
Sapped, my faith still knows only God can revamp.
Obedience first, I have learned I must pray
asking forgiveness for letting Satan cramp
my trust which I confess I let go astray.
Springtime returns as the Lord re-lights my lamp
with the dawn of redemption on this new day.
Wisdom and strength restored, I can now rejoice
surrounded by the Lord’s peace and heaven's joys.
Crossing Lines
You ruinous rascal
Just a rat in the pack
You forced me to sell
now I just want it back
Calamity came
You had the highest bid
Simon’s sister Sydney
liked what you did
You think you’re the winner
She’s bouncing on your lap
Smug with contentment
as you tip your cap
A rollercoaster is coming
You’ll plummet from the top
Shattering successful illusion
your status will drop
A ring is a circle
it will come back to me
The curse you purchased
I’ll get back for free.
It was no bargain
It tainted her skin
Sapped away her beauty
You watched her grow thin
Five hundred years
precious so divine
Not meant for another
only one family line.
Sweat-drenched heat victims crank up the AC’s.
Temperate weather has bid us adieu.
Energy is sapped; for some, optimism grows dim.
Alleviation follows the occasional rainstorm.
Many rely on swimming pools for brief respite.
Yesterday was hot; today will be a record-breaker.
Serene silence, its salient feature
The sapped bodies snug in solitude.
Not a mound of sand and cement.
A structure to showcase our reverence and regard and
Keep them alive through our thoughts, words and deeds.
Do the enshrouded bodies realize how nicely they are carved?
Definitely,not.
Souls satiate when tributes are paid.
Tombs reflect cultures and civilizations.
Tombs disclose unknown facts of royal dynasties.
Some stand as tokens of perpetual love like Tajmahal.
Some are adored,
As they have engulfed the thinkers, torchbearers and preceptors.
It's the end as well as onset of a new life.
Whoever and whatever it is!
Paying tribute to an abandoned soul is the sole cosmic order.
Place: 4
Written: February 13, 2023
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An anathema for,
pilose nettle burns,
an art form of unstable feathers,
tropes across the ivory cuticles.
Melted mascarpone in a figurine,
pearlescent obsidian,
hooping sapped spirit,
sight of the blue sky.
within her boneless flesh,
the artist grumbles severely,
in a strained, velvety voice,
jumping into the air.
Prima picture goes away,
with feeble equine acclaim,
the nest of the forlorn swan,
embracing an ethereal dawn.
Whimsical soprano,
barely etched in matte black,
diploid remains,
a flawless fleck of fascinating fright.
Rakish Requiem for an,
unrequited magnum opus,
rushing on pinewood stains,
on the cusp of collapse.
As she droops on the ladder,
the impresario draws the
opera curtains closer,
while soothing music,
numbs her toes.
When Requiem strolls,
across the stage to the tune of
Mozart pianissimo,
he manages to pull off,
fulfills a task with accuracy.
2nd place contest winner
A spiritual sickness enveloped my stagnant heart.
I searched for her in darkened obscure visions,
A futile illusory chase that led to a desert of love.
Had I become addicted to her presence?
Deep in my heart, I knew that all was distorted.
I wondered if I really loved her,
Yet I could not bear the loss, knowing her as I did.
Finally, she disappeared from circulation,
It left my strength sapped from a wide goose chase.
Life trickled by slowly, as I lost my job, wasted my money,
Rendering my situation an almost irreparable ruin and loss.
Looking back, recollecting my bad choices
It took me some time to discern the inevitable damage
That rendered my skeletal life beyond repair.
Could I renew and restore my affluent fortunes?
Life had its ups and downs, like desert dunes.
All I needed was a fertile oasis. Walking on the hot sand
Was painful but I had to try. I began my journey anew.
Will I ever learn? Who knows? One can only hope.
After all, the desert is never endless though it may seem so.
Now your crown lays broken
And your scepter duly snapped
Your feet so fleet now leaden
Your might of arm too, sapped.
Yet cling you to times due passed
And vainly hope for morrow bright
Your paltry breath would scarcely last
Sustained you still your burning pride
So quick to kneel and grind your head
To dust, so rightly blithe
Your noble soul demands be fed
Its wretched lust for life.
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