Day's End
At the day's end in that bit of light
Before slipping into the night
I look out over the land
Watching the birds with their departing planned
Then for a while it's quiet as the smudges of night take over the sky
And with its last breath the day says goodbye
As the birds settle in
Their night songs begin
One to the next in a gentle sweep
A call, a warble, a chirp, or a peep
As they relax into the nights ancient stand
The stars twinkle amid the dapples of a moonlit splendor's brand
Myself safe at home
Ready for my rest after the days roam
You can definitely not write for too long.
Words are weaving around a stand still.
That stands still like a sidewalk crack.
They burrow.
Road smudges.
The other universe doesn’t go away.
It just gets sealed in pipes.
And we hear the pipes creak.
You can definitely not write for too long.
What’s worst is that you don’t forget how to write.
But when you grab a pen or pencil?
You feel the temperature creaking.
Words get torn down.
An empty wasp nest of a head.
Breath grinds stone in the hollow chest,
time loops, cruel clockwork chewing marrow.
Each step refracts an endless cascade,
mirrors eating mirrors, swallowing meaning.
She watches herself dissolve, still walking,
hands trembling over undone buttons.
The walls bend inward, whispering static:
a language faceless, flat, unending.
Memory slits its own throat quietly,
bleeds until the air stinks of void.
Faces blur, cruel smudges framed in frost.
Fingers forget what they’ve once held.
The ceiling fractures, mercury spills night.
Dust coats the tongue, sour scripture of collapse.
Sanity laughs, teeth like shattered porcelain.
She screams and keeps on breathing.
Nothing stops. Nothing starts. Stillness spins.
Somewhere in the debris, she remains
a scream folded inside a name,
a self rusting softly in endless loop.
Breath grinds stone in the hollow chest,
time loops, cruel clockwork chewing marrow.
Each step refracts an endless cascade,
mirrors eating mirrors, swallowing meaning.
She watches herself dissolve, still walking,
hands trembling over undone buttons.
The walls bend inward, whispering static:
a language faceless, flat, unending.
"Echo without collapse"
Memory slits its own throat quietly,
bleeds until the air stinks of void.
Faces blur, cruel smudges framed in frost.
Fingers forget what they’ve once held.
"Echo without collapse"
The ceiling fractures, mercury spills night.
Dust coats the tongue, sour scripture of collapse.
Sanity laughs, teeth like shattered porcelain.
She screams and keeps on breathing.
Nothing stops. Nothing starts. Stillness spins.
Somewhere in the debris, she remains
a scream folded inside a name,
a self rusting softly in endless loop.
"Echo without collapse"
Every day we are ushered as the school bells peal
To inaugurate the start of the next school day’s zeal
Everyday we pledge allegiance to our flag
And to our nation, and to our God we appeal
There is teaching and learning going on
As the custodian passes by each class
Removing black marks from the hallway floors
Cleaning finger smudges from the glass
He knows the goings-on and those coming and those going
He knows what to do in the heat and after every snowing
He is the surveyllerist and purveyor of them
He’s behind the scenes to keep the school year rolling
As soon as the school year starts, there is a period at the end of the sentence
And the adventure of summer cleaning commences
And the kenopsia of a school vacated
Eerily all cries and sighs and laughter as echoes have faded
Oil spread across blank canvases
W
i
l
d
reigning over the smudges I tossed
crimsons and violets and fuchsias galore...
merging together to form a tree bark hue
the deepening browns often relate the most~
unique and fertile as the shades can ever become
wild and bitter like lattes blended with vanilla
down to earth and relaxed as a warm light source
making my skin go reddened and vibrant
like parakeets nesting in trunks and serenading
or moss clinging to nearby marble, discovering a home
sort of like a fashion statement, a mild accessory
but these browns won't linger in silhouettes
just keep me pacified and add to soft ambiance
while aiding to the beauty of belonging
and the silkiness of softness which surrounds us~
to become a masterpiece
it starts with c lu t te red
c
h
a
o
t
i
c sketches
paint-splattered smudges
bleeding blotted lines
failed impasto
in fractured form
but eventually,
the canvas begins to glow
through wet brushes,
drop and lift
subtle shifts
of calm chiaroscuro
bold, breathing bursts of colours
layer upon luminous layer
pigment pressed with patient precision
each stroke of calm caresses
until the vibrant hues
that softly kiss
the quiet
quivering glow
of your smile
are finally framed.
Your carpet sounds fine, but now wait!
You say there are spots here and there?
Some smudges show dirt that you hate?
The solution I will now share.
I'm telling you what you should know!
This Zap is the best cleaner found!
And like the commercial, I'll show
It's quick and works well all around.
Just spray it on those spots of dirt-
No need to scrub in or to blot!
Foam power is built in each squirt-
walla- and away goes the spot!
Like magic, your carpet will gleam.
No one will suspect dirt was there.
You'll smile while this cool, magic cream
will fix your stained rug with great care!
And just for the heck of it, too-
discounted now twenty percent!
No kidding, it's so very true-
you'll wonder where all that dirt went!
I watch at the last minute
a solitary petal
cascading from the cracked bough--
through mosaic glass of my window
it trickles serenely and weaves
low along a grappled wind,
sailing over the chilly vale...
It aligns with a hundred other petals
all together waltzing in space,
and gazing at this unrehearsed dance
in glorious animation,
the miracle of serenity unfolds,
enthralling nature's live portrait
... as a tear of awe smudges my eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh weary quill, oh ink-stained stick,
You groan, for your nib’s broken and sick.
Once bold and sharp, a knight so true,
Now warped and battered—oh, woe is you!
You’ve danced through novels, poems so grand,
Then hobbled through grocery lists unplanned.
A poet’s sword? A clerk’s sad tool?
Today you blur—a drooling fool.
Remember when you dashed with grace?
Now every stroke’s a grim disgrace.
You skip, you splatter, you belittle my hand,
Leaving smudges I do not command.
Maybe you need a long vacay~
To nap on the beach, your weary quill to placate.
Yet here you remain, my shaky friend
Scribing with me till the bitter end.
Growing up is a notebook
Each chapter a different stage of life
Innocence is the first pages
Lines are drawn in graphite
mistakes can be erased without leaving a mark
And new words replace the previous
Ink replaces graphite
Erasers scrub and scrub aggressively against the worn-out pages
Until they ache
Smudges reveal a harsh reality
The characters we choose to inscribe stay with us forever
Words cannot be taken back
They can be covered up, but the truth still lies beneath
Beneath the lies, beneath the judgement, and beneath the stares
Growing up is how we choose to write
In our notebooks
You baby, were like the sky,
A bright blue canvas,
Our story, still yet to be painted,
Along the way I've made a few smudges,
And now I wait for the clouds
to creep back and erase all my mistakes,
so that we may start our journey anew.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
morning light slants gold
through venetian blinds, slow as honey.
summer stretches its limbs,
yawns across the porch swing,
and time dissolves like sugar in iced tea.
hubby’s hand in mine—dry warmth,
the rustle of leaves underfoot,
a conspiracy of squirrels.
the woods don’t care about our plans,
and that’s the gift~
nowhere to be but here,
no clock but the sun filtering down.
December arrives wrapped in laughter,
a tangle of mismatched chairs,
too many forks, not enough plates.
someone always burns the rolls.
the carols rise anyway~
off-key, overlapping,
a chaos of joy sharp as pine needles.
blank pages are kinder
than mirrors.
They never judge~
only wait.
My pen bleeds
stories, coffee stains, and
ink smudges like bruises
I’m proud to carry.
the wind howls its complaints,
rattles the windowpanes.
I let it.
the mug warms my palms,
steam curling into the air
like a ghost of comfort.
The cocoa is too sweet.
I drink it anyway.
Written: December 09, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: John Anderson
*******************
1/
Clock ticks through cold nights
shades aim long as the light fades—
pages grow flimsy,
the ink of forgotten names
smudges dissolve in stillness.
2/
The rain of spring knows
steps shod on the silky soil—
sighs mirror orchids
their fragrance widens for years
festering yet ephemeral.
3/
Sun shines through summer
Smiles of kids in the landscape—
brilliant and boundless
but even the dazzling fire
fades in the quiet of dusk.
Conclusion:
4/
Leaves shed in the fall
a rustling thread each season—
woven in tandem—
time is the loom of our life
fabric of recollection.
There it is
Shadow rising to the top
Like scum from a fresh milking
I can not turn away
Glimpses flash
A rattling doorknob
My body feels heavy
Terror
My bedroom window
Footprints in the snow
Laughing at my suspicion
But it happened
My womb fell out
My barrenness returned
The sacred moments, scarred
Intimacy, indistinguishable
Fog, so much density
Questions without answers
Accusations without provocation
Grief
Smudges on my glasses
A cross stands in my heart
Denial drives the nails
But it happened
My BODY kept the memory, though my mind broke under Judas
Written by Trudy Schrader on 12-8-2025
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