It comes like a slip in the day~
a blue stillness,
a pause I didn’t ask for
but must walk through.
The operating room is bright,
too bright,
as if the world has been pared
to its cleanest edge.
A feather rests on the tray~
not real, but the thought of one:
light,
soft,
bound to air
the way I am bound
to this hour.
Memory stirs~
the half-dream drift
of all I’ve lived through,
all I’ve held,
all I’ve let fall.
Peace is not loud here.
It is a small pulse
in my wrist,
a breath that says
I am still
in the world,
even now,
even in this
unexpected place.
And when I wake,
the light has changed.
The day has moved on.
But something in me
has learned
the quiet art
of returning.
Your eyes keep faith with the hidden night,
With all the unspoken fears of the soul,
They are deep as a forest after rain,
Where even the bravest light moves slow.
You smile as though the world is kind,
As though no thorn has known your skin,
Yet in those dark and listening eyes
A thousand quiet storms slip in.
You carry sorrow like folded silk—
So soft it scarcely shows its weight,
And hope like a trembling candle-flame
You guard against the winds of fate.
Not all your grief was born of loss,
Some came from loving far too well,
From giving gold where only stone
Was waiting in another’s spell.
Still, in your gaze the stars remain,
Though clouds have crossed their silver fire,
For even secret-shadowed eyes
Are haunted still by hidden choir.
And I, who stand outside your night,
Can only guess what truths you hide—
But in your dark eyes I have seen
How beautifully a heart can weep.
THE POWER OF KINDNESS
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
Contest Judged: 10/8/2025 3:41:00 AM
( 3rd Place )
Written: October 1, 2025
A kind word can slip in quietly,
like sunlight through a dusty window,
softly touching a corner of the heart
you thought no one noticed.
A smile shared in passing
a hand held for a moment,
"thanks for being exactly you"
these are the sparks
that can set a heavy day aglow.
Kindness isn’t loud or grand;
it doesn’t need applause.
It’s in the gentle pause;
the patient ear,
the courage to care
when no one is watching.
And sometimes
one word—just one…
can turn someone’s world
from gray to bright,
from lonely to known,
from weary to whole.
So speak gently.
Act kindly.
For each small ripple
can reach farther than
you’ll ever know,
and the love you send out
always comes back around.
It was after midnight,
when he slipped out of bed,
careful not to disturb,
the trailing streamers
of dreamers in la la land.
The house held its breath warm—
willing all within its walls
to stay asleep; not be stirred.
The creaks of timber stairs
were never heard, never slurred,
to blurt out their secrets and
break the stark, thin, brittle hush of night.
As he snuck into the kitchen,
the night light came on,
saving a bare-foot snub.
As he stooped to open the fridge,
he saw the note she left on the door,
from the day before, saying:
“I forgot to tell you the milk's a little off.”
He smiled at the crooked charm of the message,
feeling a ghost in the whispered warning.
Fed the milk to the cat.
It purred with delight.
Sometimes he thought, such tiny phrases,
slip in before they're noticed,
curdle before you taste them.
Only to slink away with a sting in their tale.
With that, he nodded and returned.
The fridge door slammed itself shut.
He wandered back to bed, on tiptoe, making no sound.
He left the light night burning,
for the shadows that rose on the landing,
and for the cat.
Both slunk away, back to bed.
I see a problem with religion,
It's like a competition,
You can't just slip in.
They want you to fit in.
To help heal your sin.
"You can stay, on One Condition."
Tything an imposition,
Sects creating division,
Trying to see who will win.
What if GOD has a different mission?
Just listen to your intuition,
Not their newest edition,
Or blindly follow tradition.
Have the ambition,
Become a new addition,
A true Magician.
An end to all suspicion.
Put fear in remission.
God's the physician,
In the perfect position,
To bring dreams to fruition.
Come join the Coalition,
Life is the auditon,
Your the Musician.
Love is the ammunition,
To defeat opposition.
This is Your rendition,
You give it definition,
And GOD gets the recognition.
The one and only condition.
Love falls like rain,
Onto my waxed face.
Blending into tears of pain,
From an unknown place.
I can’t think straight,
I can’t see clearly,
I can’t love anymore.
My sight blurred from burning,
Spits of acidic fear that hide in my facade.
My stomach churns; flipping and turning,
On the icy disregard.
Why I can’t I find help
In anywhere I seek?
The cry of a dozen friends stifled out
By the downpour of the weak.
I slip in weeping puddles,
That line the mirthless floor:
Singing double, double toil and trouble,
A chant I’ve heard before.
The scores of a thousands follies
Shriek the scores of isolation.
How can I live when
A simple rain does drown me out?
So I shall lift my hood,
And hide from the stormy water.
Wishing my life would
Soon become shorter.
Modesty is not
Dresses and scarves
But action and thought
Gentle and measured.
I wear a satin scrunchie
On my wrist, it reminds me
I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
There is strength in softness
I do not hide the beauty of femininity.
As my scrunchie is kind to my skin,
So am I in word and action.
I refrain from idle gossip
And do not speak ill of
my family, friends and neighbours.
If I slip in word or thought,
I adjust my scrunchie
And quietly try again.
Garbage written in ‘How To Assemble’
Outlandish nonsense with English attempted
Borderline craziness it can resemble
Baffled, I mutter, “May I be exempted?”
Lunacy drafted in some foreign land
English it said… and I said, ”No way.”
Dumbass instructions I can’t understand
Explaining - NOT - how to build in one day
Gormless; the author has been at my gin
Oddball expressions that baffle my brain
Ostensibly claiming ‘Part D will slip in.’
Kitchen cupboards should be less of a pain
time stops to slip in ebony night,
emotive clock freezes
eternal pathos in congealed instants,
silhouetted in the shadow of past,
smears the strata of darkness,
designed to disguise perception lattice
I have never been good at hiding
At least not from those who truly pay attention
I’ve never been good at hiding so instead, I became great at deflecting
I slip in words to distract and detract from the attention that is focused on me
And when that doesn’t work because so many people do actually care
I give just enough to satisfy
Because when I say many people care, they only care enough to hear the basics
Because going beyond that would take too much time and require too much energy
And everyone has their own things to talk about and deal with right?
However, watching people prove that I will always come last to nearly everything in life
And prove that I will never be as much a priority to them as they are to me gets exhausting
So instead, I’ve just started saying I’m fine
Im okay
Because I’ve never been good at hiding
But you were never really looking anyway
Life is a circle.
Situations are a mixture.
A circle of thinkable and unthinkable
opportunities gets you jumping irrelevantly.
The slipy nature of happiness goes in haste;
you want to stop, but it passes out.
A one is tired, a one is confused, a one is mad;
situations are lurking; you cannot depend on
your intentions sought.
We became so permanent in our
temporariness just because of emotions.
You cannot ever imagine that either
practicality is tough or accepting of emotions.
To be balanced is hard. That is why we slip in the circle.
We hurt, we break; instead of that,
magic is that we are living; we are living beauty.
Poetry’s for me
Don’t need Plot
Character
or Theme
Nor Beginning
Middle
or Ending
Activate the senses
Stir up an emotion
or two
Slip in a Mickey Finn
POW!
Dip the ladle in the punch
Invite the world to try it
The hulls of small boats
drop down into the morning fog
then return like rising seagulls.
The moored
slip in and out of the mist
then return painted
by a deep diving sky.
Sinking or flying, the small craft
slip through our vision
like leaking ghosts.
They roll upon an obscure air
shipping cloudy waves,
a swell last seen
in shipwrecked teacups.
All of me is open for review
every moment spent in time with you,
the wakening with the rise of the sun
washing, dressing, breakfast on the run,
warmly heated cars rushing off
driving along the pothole streets slough
a bumpy start then no paths to ride
smooth and steady glides,
stiff chairs and desks set prone
e-mails, urgent papers shown
the daily grind keeps us here
in the physical reality sphere;
but somewhere in the daily quests
there is an escape but little rest
as all the efforts I have made
slip in and out of the twilight shade
and this here and now is not the only parade;
my life exists throughout the days
finding refuge in the clouds at bay
here the senses ignite to send me reeling
exceeding seeing, hearing, tasting, touching, feeling,
it's an emotional flush
wrapped in imagination's rush
a virtual escape
why would you hesitate?
Slip up, slide in and out your personal shroud
to the virtual reality up in the cloud.
We’re playing the long game.
We share things, we’re lovers,
we slip in and out of each other’s lives
like jackets hanging on the back of a door.
Relationships are like instruments,
they must be played, kept in tune,
the carnal and the corny balanced,
carefully, like sections of an orchestra.
Sometimes, I feel that I have to bring the energy,
BE the entertainment - and I can do that - in spades
but not forever - I’m not a tireless-giver - in fact,
I'm atavistically Parisien (we admit loving nothing).
I’m learning that when a relationship’s conducted,
at great remove, the basics - like punctuality,
dependability and preparation - become a big deal.
When I’m in an optimistic headspace, I think we can do it,
maybe, that we know what we want and who we are.
That we’re playing the long game
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