Morning chapel
padre preaching
all new to me
came here for a natter
see what’s there to see
every hell has its angels
he don’t know ‘bout angels
how they fight
thrills of a motor bike
chariots o’fire
if he say he do, s’not true,
he aint read the manual
don’t know what a spanner’s for
he just know we threw it in
an’ it don’t work
I’d run out o’ booze
drunk as a lord
awake till morn
got no comfort
I ain’t weak
disinherited me
had nothin’ to give
always empty
it ain’t right
raised hungry an’ thirsty
plenty o’ scrapes
showed no mercy
weak for a tart
love n’ leave
that ain’t odd
yeah, was picked on
fight for me rights
they be-me-attitudes
an’ I’ll not change
bless ‘em they try
‘n they try
I’ll never change
if heaven is gained
through suffrin’
I’m in
man-ah never found
streets paved with bread
much less with gold
I looked for trouble
‘n found it
there ain’t no justice
tain’t no miracle
that’s why I’m here
tain’t no miracle
Pride
I'm first
you're worst
Greed
all mine
don't whine
Envy
I need
your deed
Gluttony
pig out
grow stout
Sloth
sweat, plow
not now
Wrath
Joad's grapes
bad scrapes
Lust
dispose
of clothes
His proprioceptors on fire
Johnny jumps higher and higher
His hand scrapes the rim
He dunks the ball in
Wrong rim, Johnny, howls the umpire
Written: June 18, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
Quote: "The brain discovers, but emotions replicate past occurrences forevermore." By Poet
I glide amid suspense as the air grows dense.
Through amber fractures that scrape the fence,
Still blazed for the thrill your shadows wore—
The anchored verdict, of evermore.
A silted shard of time daze,
A wire-mesh mirror that grate and glaze,
It scrapes the shell where the marrow tore—
A signal throbbing evermore.
Through gullies choked with a sullen scent,
Through spans of gloom where lumber's bend,
Your strobes ignite on the slatted floor—
A sizzling earth expanding evermore.
You lodge inside the strained strain,
A white-hot core that no veil can drain,
The pulsing pitch, I cannot ignore—
A sinew humming evermore.
And after the casing snaps its seam
When digits fuse in a blinding beam,
This vacuum slams on a rock-bound shore—
The engine stilled in evermore.
Though metal cools in the still space.
The spirit-volt is gone, without a trace.
A hissing heat on rusty shore—
the agony intensified, evermore
They say it isn’t good for them
To feed them moldy bread
But it always makes her giggle
When they Bob their heads
Teeny tiny boots upon the waters edge
The sun is shining warmly
As she tosses out some bread
She talks to them like people
Though their eyes are beady and dull
A little slip and almost wet
But on hee shirt I pull
She falls not in the water, but her little foot is wet
Teeny tiny boots will dry
And dryer socks I’ll get
Once the bread is gone
To the playground we will go
She runs and laughs and screams so free
As she flits to and fro
The other kids they play with her
I watch dutifully
Sure to bring a special kit
In case she scrapes her knee
These are things fhat bring me peace
My child wild and free
A smile upon her prettt face
A face that looks like me
The porch light flickers yellow in grey night,
Biting cold seeps in, stiffening my bones,
Soon, a shovel scrapes, screeching in the ice:
My neighbour is clearing a snowy path-
“Need help or lights, fixing the tree?” I ask.
These are not grand gestures, no trumpets blare,
Just quiet hands reaching out in the dark,
A warmth sparkling more than fire in the grate:
This, too, is Christmas love, an act to serve.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The nib scrapes the page like hiking boots
on river rock. Not for fame—that ghost dissolves
in tea-stained mornings. Nor for catharsis' loot,
though confessional steam sometimes evolves
into verse.
No. It's the hunger: that sly ache
when streetlight bleeds on wet asphalt,
and you taste copper on your tongue, awake
to the hum in telephone wires—a vault
of unsaid things.
You become conduit,
antenna trembling for static's raw hymn~
translating the fracture:
how grief sounds when it hits marble;
how laughter thins at the rim of an empty glass.
Each poem is a compass needle
swinging wildly—not toward truth, but the why
beneath broken sidewalks—the sacred needle
piercing silence allowing the dark sky to cry.
The peasant scrapes charbroiled stones from his field—
“Hope is a feathered thing” refusing to yield.
Inspired by “Hope Takes Wing” by Chetta Achara [2025]
fluffy bunny
dumb bunny
bunny hop
bugs bunny
honey bunny
funny bunny
bunny tale
bunny tail
stuffed bunny
roughed bunny
bunny rabbit
sunny habit
peter rabbit
scrapes a habit
bugs bunny
made life funny
under foot a pebble, no
opposite toe scrapes it off
crimson sole and toe
shard of glass missed the dust bin
and both feet caught the action
spouse to the rescue
bandaids and antiseptic
blood dripping on floor
socking up; putting on shoes
standing for the next three hours
Pink snake in murky water
Feminine
Bite
scrapes face
The voices of my children in a video
In early August
I fear my memory is failing
But I am so young
Bruises riddle my knees
Who hurt me?
I walk through fog
Dayless daydream
Wilting
The whooshing of threadbare curtains cuts through deadening silence,
while shadows on the wall toy with a hermit's sanity.
The graze of unseen, jagged fingernails scrapes against sweaty flesh,
injecting poison into subcutaneous tissue,
unwieldily setting the stage.
A heaviness of humid, stale air presses down on compressed lungs,
as maniacal laughter bounces off cracked ceilings.
Buzzing flies circle, swooping down
just to taunt—then vaporize into nothingness.
Muttering voices cling to the inside of a failing cranium,
overtaking a discarded soul, slowly stripping away morality.
Irises blacken, then return to sapphire, before blackening again.
Sitting, rocking back and forth with arms wrapped around legs,
speaking in tongues—
the transformation has begun.
A shattered will; possession seems inevitable.
Fighting feels increasingly hollow.
The smothering venom accelerates.
Chattering crescendos
until your body becomes complete chaos,
and what's left of your soul is trapped within a cage,
locked deep inside the pits of demonic despair.
"Im not doing this because you told me to
Im doing this because I feel sorry for you"
No, you don't.
You want love.
You want acceptance.
You're scared it isn't real
Scrapes and bare bones wilting in your soul
Waiting for your joy to steal
No home to call your own
The eyes are windows to a world inside
You wanna hide
Keep away
Ur led astray
These hands do not feed
They take
Then convince you are the bag dog
A stray alley cat deserves scraps
How about that?
Now I feed myself luxurious banquests
I CANT breathe at the end
I endulge and indulged, but now suddenly with the banquet
You find yourself reaching out a hand?
When I had scrapes and you were prepared for?
Choke on the salty essence of your tears
“Love can change a person’s life, leave him breathless, either building him or breaking him”~ By Poet
* * * *
Cupid the great archer,
Shoots his arrow heedless!
On some, it cuts through the heart.
On some others, it only scrapes through.
On a few, it misses the target.
Once shot down, it leaves one breathless.
Heart trumpeting, shifting from one beat to another,
Rhythmically, making it pound quicker.
Opens in one the inlets of pleasure.
It makes one ecstatic and foolish,
With thoughts disjointed, emotions running amok.
Spirit confounded and compounded.
It is madness, a pleasant kind of madness!
It comes and goes, leaving one breathless.
Guts highjacked by anxiety or ecstasy,
Always in throes of a pleasant ache,
Making the heart run a race, keeping one on his toes!
Love starts differently in varying intensity,
But it ends in a familiar way, in the same manner.
The sweetness ends,
infatuation dies,
sour taste lingers,
boredom persists!
On the frozen side of the sun lies Svalbard.
A barren, treeless stretch of land
Buried beneath snow and stillness.
Here, the cold doesn’t just bite;
It consumes.
The whirlwind air scrapes skin with surgical precision.
For months each year, the sun abandons the sky.
Svalbard drifts beneath a vaulted night.
Darkness bleeds through permafrost,
Settling in the earth’s frozen marrow.
But beneath this ice-scarred wilderness,
Where avalanche and ash calcify,
A vault lies hidden deep in the mountain’s underbelly.
It cradles the future;
A womb of waiting seeds,
Asleep in rows of glass and steel.
Hope, suspended in time.
In this tomb of preservation,
Life isn’t gone.
Just waiting with a promise of rebirth.
And when the sun returns,
Brushing marigold hues across glistening glaciers
Like a kiss upon Snow-White's lips,
Those seeds will stir with life.
They will remember the sun.
They will rise.
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