She pretends it’s no big deal
She wants to speak, you know
Just trivial things, no big reveal
But today is a day to tiptoe
He pretends she’s no good anyway
She’s really just too much though
She is a silly goose every day
But today is a day to tiptoe
She pretends to be just friends
Although this crush just won’t go
She senses his shifts and trends
So she knows today is a day to tiptoe
He pretends nothing should be said
As though his feelings shouldn’t show
For him it is safer to tread
So he knows today is a day to tiptoe
She pretends that his handsome face
Doesn’t affect her at the show
She shoves it down with a little grace
For today is a day to tiptoe
He pretends it is better to be without
Affairs of the heart just cause woe
Being busy is a much safer route
For today is a day to tiptoe
No channel skipping ..no flannel...it was so gripping…hearts melt…Pant's ripping svelte pelt and belt..stripping and whipping..the fab never drab Rishab lab..was it real..felt like I was tripping… no pipping..surreal cartwheel flipping..
Some verse about the Panto Pant curse…does traverse…like a hearse….won’t reimburse..adverse bowlers terse..things getting worse…reputations nurse…Rishab flash panache smash and grab..rehearse that ramp reverse..in his own homegrown perverse.. with only himself will converse..no fretting..go getting…record setting universe..
Now has outshone and outdone..shoves show pony Dhoni.. as the Indian man alright talisman with the gloves everybody loves with the most tons..holy moly..more three figures scores on England tours than the folklore of before..Sunny and Kohli..
Records splattered shattered..gallivanting Pant parade..cascade and cavalcade …flattered .. Rishab paddled..bowlers addled and raddled..skedaddled
Ignore any naysayer…prime sublime Pantomimes…haymaker…cocktail shaker…p**s taker…tik tok peacocker..run for fun maker…cool cat with the bat..almost indecent crimes..the Indian’s best test player and slayer of recent times..
God works in whispers and slight nudges
Some choose to blast the music of the world
They drown Him out and claim He isn't there
They run away from Him tapping softly for attention
He follows
But not with screams and shouts and shoves
He doesn't work like that
If only we can learn to quiet our minds and lives to hear
His words of love and nudges reminding us of our path
He knocks on the door of our hearts
All we need to do is let Him in
Words, nudges, and knocks to remind us of our true home
Home with Him in eternal happiness
Ruffles of sand that flash before my eyes in every waking moment
Oceans of blue that briefly lift and meet mine
My plain, brown eyes, that would blend in the mud
And my clothes that never lose the scent of pine
Versus his hoodies and the gold chain that hangs around his neck
Or the glasses that come and go upon his nose,
His brain, or the fact he shares a name
With the boy who hurt me the most.
When I stand surrounded, I look for him
Watching the door, hoping to see his hesitant gait
And the way he shoves his hands in his pockets
Seemingly content to stop, watch, and wait.
When the day fades to night, and the crickets cease to chirp
It’s him who haunts me when I lie awake in bed
Replaying each little interaction
And regretting the things that i never said.
Every corner of my mind stays aware
Of how fragile our tether will be
If I allow myself to stare into those oceans of blue
A single wave would wash us out to sea.
So silent I sit whenever he comes around
The fear that I keep protects my fractured heart
Injured, but not quite broken
By a love that didn’t start.
plane, bus 'n train
elevators 'n escalators
revelers 'n sale-day crowds
is where we meet
STRANGERS!
looking away,
with no eye-to-eye contact
no nod, wink, grunt of 'Hi's',
never ever recognizing
the sharers of the commons
shoved together
withdrawn incognito.
Here for thee be :
The Ten Commandments of Crowd Etiquette
Thou Shalt Honor Thy and Their Personal Bubbles
Thou Shalt Not Partake in Olfactory Betrayal
Thou Shalt Not Greet Strangers with a Nod, Only with Indifferent Defiance
Thou Shalt Yield Thy Seat only to the Ill, with-Child, Frail, Aged & the Lovely
Thou Shalt Stand Thy Ground, Letting Others Squeeze Pass Reluctantly
Thou Shalt Not Covet Another’s Seat or Space
Thou Shalt Keep Thine Phone Silent at Thine Side, and Do Not Speak
Thou Shalt Bear No Grudges for Shoves, Humphs & Grunts in Tight Spaces
Thou Shalt Honor all Queues, Despite their Length and Thy Lateness
Thou Shalt Yen the Zen of Strangers in Common Humanity
the shock
72% of the inhabitants of Israel
Approve of Netanyahu's treatment of
the people of Gaza
One supposes their TV shoves the same
horror as we see
It is as the people of Israel are beset by
an inner truth that destroys their soul
and lead them into self-destruction
For, we need a long spoon when
dealing with Israel
Breath in, breath out
the tide ebbs in, and surges out,
flows and pauses.
Swings and seesaws rock, bounce and rebound,
up and down, in tick-tock metronome time.
Memories tug, get hugged,
then unclasp, withdraw and let go to fade.
Dreams materialize, then dissolve.
Laughter spits, splits, spills, gushes out,
echoes then wanes to abstain in a chuckle.
Hope flits and flickers like a candle flame
blown to quiver by a shaky breath expelled
while trying to blow
the flame of a birthday candle out.
For the cadence of existence
is a hymn tuned by a conductor's baton
a metric dance, set in a tango two-time step,
a soft-shoe tap rap
in between yesterday and tomorrow,
in between blinks, breath holds.
Nestled momentarily on-hold to pause,
in between the tugs and shoves
of feelings, emotions,
hopes, inspiration
faith and desire.
Hold your breath,
for a brief moment.
Take time to take in
all the ins and outs,
and the roundabout twirls,
that surround you,
while you go
with the flow.
The man in front of me is a broken one,
and my fingers are drowning in dripping glue,
in cement,
in something meant to hold things
To hold him
To hold myself and others together.
Yet he binds himself
with puppet strings, scotch tape,
and the wet breath of drugs.
Batting at my outstretched
Hands
Dodging the warmth of a true touch,
He flinches.
He bleeds- visibly
and he screams from a
starlight-lost, daydream-blinded face
that I am wrong.
He shoves daggers into my seams,
prying at my wounds.
Burning red and pulsing in purple bruise
Image of a warrior
turned blue.
while leaking he bursts open.
Pain seeping into my sobbing mouth
From his unstitched scars
So easy to tear.
He rips with his own hands
At the both of us
When he does not cover his ears and turn his back
To cradle in a seething silence
Clutching with razor blade hands
the child,
The pained,
Chained, caged pet he swallows with every breath as if I cannot
See the lump in his throat
Or feel the kicking in his chest.
But I am a mountain,
capped in the blood of a hundred storms,
and I will not cave.
Real comedy is bold
it's straight and blunt
there's no white gloves
or polite niceties
Real comedy is harsh
without playing dirty
it smacks you in the face
and punches in the gut
Real comedy is dark
looks head on at society
points out what's wrong
and shoves it in your face
Real comedy is hot
enrages those with a soul
infuriates those who claim
to have a conscience
Real comedy is cold
sure it gets laughs
make no mistake
it's on a mission
Real comedy is brash
addresses those who
care to make a difference
and want to change the world
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
God spoke and created.' Commisioned Moses, and other
Prophets who duly narrated.' Men asked for such.' Yet soon changed
Their minds.' When comments and guidance didn't match
'With their kind' in piqu'e and rage they oft, were at odds with such intruders.' They of course blamed God.' They raised up alters to 'climate forces' worshipped trees; stars;
And watercourses ' then they took Gods son sent in Love
To crucify after kicks punches, whippings and shoves' they
Put Him to death' as (their solution final) yet Gods one
Always life.' To such is rejection and denial?
Bondage was good for us.
"Master-me,
you are me taking me.” She was right,
I would lose myself in her.
She’s related to George Washington,
an unrecorded blood tie.
Her flesh is a sensual braille for shaping hands,
her unresisting art a deft choreography
of her once mute history.
We are deep sea divers
pushing against an erotic gravity.
Somewhere in another story,
an aged Washington
shoves his shriveled member
into another young black woman.
Should we honor both?
Dark is the page unturned.
Symbolically, in our own way,
we both took pleasure
in burning down
the Presidents fine white mansion
many-many times.
Time limits boggle my mind
with stressful thoughts of "hurry up,"
and "don't dawdle."
It makes me anxiously annoyed
to be pressured into completing
whatever the task.
I want to keep turning the hourglass
to keep the sands from running out,
or shackle the tongue of a clock's pendulum
before its gong rings, "Too late,
you've failed to achieve your goal!"
If truth be told,
I prefer not to measure time at all.
The urgency of ticking hands
makes me clench my jaws and fists.
I become impatient when it pushes
and shoves me along, relentlessly.
Times up and I'm done.
Black Walnuts roll over a high edge,
the tree is too close to a sea cliff.
Walnuts dash themselves upon rocks,
only one lands on a surfing wave.
It has not been bitten,
by tunneling insects
and so it remains watertight.
On a far beach it is washed up.
A boy finds it,
he is not sure if he wants to keep it
yet he shoves it into his pants pockets.
Walking home across open fields,
he decides it’s just a rotten nut,
and throws it away.
A walnut tree will grow
where the nut landed.
This is how the planet grows -
the cast-off and done with,
are essential parts of a plan,
masquerading as an accident.
Nobody here is an accident.
“We are all broken, but sometimes the jagged pieces fit together nicely.”
- Paul Acampora
Jagged scars mar her soul,
She drinks jagged tears,
Jagged pain stains her whole
life throughout the years;
Jagged cries dye her night,
She sings jagged songs,
Jagged thoughts blot her light,
For some peace, she longs;
Jagged dread threads her dreams,
She writes jagged rhymes,
Jagged clouds shroud sunbeams,
These are darkened times...
Jagged hope ropes its way,
She risks jagged smiles,
Jagged love shoves all grey,
She's crossed many miles;
Jagged heart starts to beat,
She's found jagged joy,
Jagged pray'rs bear her feet,
E'en death can't destroy;
Jagged roads strode, she soared,
Now, pens happy songs,
Jagged no more, restored,
To Christ, she belongs.
I’m still that little girl hiding in a box trying to rest
with my dirty stuffed doggy toy, tattered blanket
and ragged clothing dejected in these streets.
I’m still that little girl they judged and harmed
imposing their falsehoods and prejudice so I
stay forever imposed in the finality of a box.
I’m still that little girl who is agonizingly shy, sad
and so very lost while their main goal is to confine
me to a box so my gentle heart is never seen.
I’m still that little girl persecuted to the point
of no return. Every time I’m barely out of
my box their sinfulness shoves me back inside.
I’m still that little girl forced into a box of
wrongful ideations so I cease to be anything
but their erroneous misconceptions of who I am.
I’m still holding on resolutely to my sincerest hope
that my faith will rise me up out of this painful box
to show the evil ones that I am truly a Child of God.
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