Farewell to my small town
I left there Sunday
Turned my back on my friends
What can I say
Seems an election of mine
was a tad out of line ...
I'm heartsick already
for this I'm too old
Without my companions
I'm not quite so bold
as to proclaim small towns
breed only small minds ...
Though alas, no room in their hearts
for even one different kind
IN THAT SMALL PLACE
I find her there
In that small space
Between wax and flame
In storms
That strike the night
A flash of light
Between drops of rain
On my own breath
When sleep is far
And mornings near
I find her there
In that small space
And breathe her name
And breathe her name
Some memories are an ethereal malignancy ... Inoperable, incurable, and terminal.
a hush holds its quiet determination;
a spark slips in as fascination;
a breath gathers slow observation;
a thread forms a soft combination;
a glance offers brief examination.
Written: September 12, 2026, Not For Contest
I kindly request that everyone who read the poem offer a prayer for the world and attentively listen the lyrics in the video, to provide feedback on whether incorporating music into the poem would be useful or not, Thanks for your kindness.
*******************
Dear World, I bring no Banner—
No trumpet for the brave—
But only hands grown weary
Of teaching hands to wave—
Let every border soften
Where frightened hearts divide—
And may the stranger's sorrow
Find shelter at our side—
The Earth has borne our thunder
Through cities turned to flame—
Yet still She gives us harvests
And calls us each by Name—
So let us choose the gentler—
The mercy we withhold—
For Peace begins so quietly—
One Heart—then another—held.
Big ghosts have small ghosts
in their dreams to haunt ‘em,
Small ghosts have smaller ghosts
and so-on ad infinitum
MY BOOK IS FREE FOR 5 DAYS! (Sep 1-5)
My dear poetry family,
My first book "My Rules To Win" is now LIVE on Amazon and it is FREE for you from 1st to 5th September!
This is my thank you gift for all your love on my poems.
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With love,
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P.S. Link is on my author profile bio!
He slides open a shallow drawer,
its wood catching slightly
before giving way.
Inside, the day’s minor slips:
a receipt with a transposed digit,
a label peeled at one corner,
a measurement off by the width
of a pencil mark.
He sorts them without hurry.
Each paper earns its place
only after he reads it twice,
sometimes three times,
to be sure the flaw is real.
A pencil rests near his hand,
shortened from use,
its point dulled by careful work.
He sharpens it only when needed,
never in anticipation.
Some errors he sets aside~
not rejected, simply waiting
until their purpose clarifies.
He has learned that small mistakes
reveal themselves slowly.
Near midday he finds one
in his own notes:
a digit written too quickly,
leaning out of line.
He corrects it without comment,
then files it with the others.
When the drawer closes,
the room settles.
Nothing finished,
nothing abandoned~
just consistency and
the quiet record
of what the world overlooks.
It is the small things that matter most
Your heart sings fresh buttered toast
Family brings together a Sunday roast
Smitten a handwritten letter in the post
Jaunts or saunters down Britain’s coast
Snow balls glisten child’s mitten the host
Don’t be a Scrooge listen to every ghost
Best bet to forget regret but don’t boast
Entranced by happenstance engrossed
In the hub of a pub toast with mein host
Your flotilla through strife of life will coast
If don’t let get pushed from pillar to post
As God damn it our planet will soon roast
Foremost and utmost remember to toast
Little treasures that every day does boast
Teeny weeny pleasures our own outpost
Just make sure you are regularly dosed
With those small things that matter most
My teeth number thirty-two.
I use some to bite. I use some to chew.
In this way, I specialize.
Don't get me started on my nose and eyes.
Oh dear, this small talk's going south.
How many teeth are in your mouth?
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Contest: LIGHT A PENSEE Poetry Contest
Date:July 28, 2026
Seed Becomes Light
Candle tongue
small sun in ink
he burned twenty hours to wake dawn
darkness cracked like glass before him
night bowed to one man
Poet Note:
This pensee is inspired by Thomas Edison, who worked by candlelight to invent the light bulb.
Small rooms I enter.
I squat and read the scribbles.
Did fingers write these?
Driving down the road
Off ramp ahead
Small town lights
Flicker; the false promise
Something more than
A closing down factory floor
Old Churches for sale
Dressed in flags of white and red
Night sky above
Blind curve ahead
The world seems dark
devoid of any spark
darkness overtook light
world seems to fight.
Laughter is gone
world races along
faster in pace
hurry to no place.
We forgot our place
in this man made race
good is evil, evil is good
forgot what we should.
As we awaken
our core is shaken
been groomed to believe
but we were deceived.
We have a thing called hope
to deception say nope
listen to our soul
inside we really know.
When we awaken to their game
the world will not be the same
one small voice
it is a matter of choice.
petals rest in a small porcelain bowl,
their faded colors holding
the last warm whisper
of summer’s breath
like a prayer released
from the hush of a chapel
their fragrance drifts upward~
a sweetness rising
toward unseen grace.
I sense the Holy Spirit
moving through the softened petals,
turning what has fallen
into something still glowing.
potpourri—a symbol of how God gathers
the small, the broken, the dried~
and breathes a lingering fragrance
into them.
A fallen leaf still breathes of summer rain,
Its amber veins hold whispers of the plain;
A candle’s hush warms corners of the night,
While shadows cradle fragments of lost light;
And when our footsteps vanish into dew,
The earth still hums with traces left by you.
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