Melancholy is a dreary morning;
hidden within our souls
like mist spread over the marsh—
upon the stagnant waters
and the treetops
that refuse to drown.
humming sounds sweat down their face people shipped across the seas. Still, the soul sing chained on display sold as a slave forced to clear the crops and pick cotton on plantations humming sounds still The soul, sing, raped, violated, whipped and hung the souls of my Louisiana ancestors still the soul sings taken from a land chained up men, women and children their souls ripped out what memories loss, skin scar blood into tears sing from the soul shame the devil the fire burns in my heart. My soul rest in hell and I will join in soul singing.
Art is not a profession,
it is just the beauty of life.
Poetry and literature are not professional works,
they are the beauty of the soul.
Art is not for sale,
because it connects to our souls.
You cannot destroy art
because it lives in our hearts.
Art is life's beauty,
making life itself beautiful.
Art is everything,
and everything is art.
If you find art in your life,
your life becomes art.
Lord, '
Frees souls, almighty cord,
Chord.
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Contest: EIGHT BY EIGHT Poetry Contest
Date: August 1, 2026
Fog Between Souls
Silent woods now hold wind echoes.
Grey mist veils our cold, frozen path.
Thick fog stands between you and me.
Dodder wrapped around both our souls.
Rootless, it drained all of our hope.
Broken leaves wept right at our feet.
Who stole our sweet love into fog?
Only silence softly answered.
People can change.
They evolve with every dawn,
Shifting, growing, becoming new.
The ancient saying—that a leopard cannot change its spots—
Does not apply to souls made in His image.
Nor can we claim an old dog cannot learn,
For grace rewrites what once seemed fixed.
Like time itself, we press forward,
Transforming in seconds, minutes, and hours.
What once was broken can bloom again;
Yesterday’s shadows yield to tomorrow’s light.
Never give up on people.
Hold space for their becoming.
You may be joyfully surprised
By the beauty that unfolds.
Who feel them a stranger are
Panic-faced. Wan.
Though as oft when sad, cheered along
Sick, handed dock
A lonely way this life-road
Will always be.
For what blows through us, and soul-deep
Of that nerve-shock.
590.
All Souls' Day Prayer to Santa Muerte
Santa Muerte in brown this All Souls ‘Day
This day after the feast of all saints of God
Remind us of spiritual beings this day
Never deny them of the honors we had
With your Incense we invite those spiritual beings
Through the sweet smell of this smoke offering
This day of God's spiritual blessings
As Holy Death is a spiritual happening.
Amen.
-11/05/2017
(Dumarao)
*Occasional Prayers to Santa Muerte
Rumple Stein locked the
bedroom door and grinned,
his eyes reflecting the pale
moonlight outside.
"Beneath your very
mattresses lies the Shadow
Snatcher," he whispered,
pointing a crooked finger
downward.
"This skinny, faceless
monster stays awake forever,
hating the peaceful dreams
of sleeping girls and boys."
The children pulled their
blankets up to their noses,
freezing as the bedframes
creaked softly.
"He creeps out into the dark
because he desperately
wants to fall asleep like you."
A cold breeze swept through
the room, through all the
windows were tightly shut.
"Since he cannot rest, he
reaches up to steal your soul,
hoping its warmth brings him
sleep."
The youngest child
whimpered, realizing their
feet were hanging off the
edge of the mattress.
"If you close your eyes
tonight, he will snatch your
spirit right out of your chest."
Rumple Stein blew out the
lamp, laughing into the pitch
black, "Better stay awake forever!"
losing claim to fame
disappeared to hinterlands
nothing will be same
weary old folks fold their hands
others rearrange their plans
words too many say
imperfect in every way
stealing light from day
debts, too numerous to pay
selling dreams which won't convey
not what we came for
low dark clouds approaching fast
home with no front door
holding on to what has passed
restless dreams soon fill our glass
once alive and whole
now fully marginalized
laughter becomes droll
not what the experts advised
nothing comes as advertised
blown in with the storm
teaches those lessons wind knows
promises deform
not even gods can oppose
status quo soon turns and goes
secret dreams time stole
can produce a troubled soul
half but not a whole
but a name where fingers scroll
another for whom bells toll
Tears are not water drops
But dipping crystal balls
Packed with profound feelings~
Let not banes from our mouth
Or furies of our acts
Sting a soft simple soul.
Bare footsteps align
with a solid path
newly taken
Shadows of the past
are now bereft
In stillness, she allows
for her spirit to rise
to new heights;
her old pain
can no longer be felt
Envious naysayers
dulled senseless with
envy and spite
lower themselves
to permanent depths
Crab claws can't reach
Illspoken soured voices
exit the garden of the mind
For in sacred isolation
alchemy makes diamonds.
A spell of Protection from souls from Hell.
From my blazing cauldron,
I draw the sacred iron of absolute warding,
Glass shard, and salt.
To bind the shattered fate of my enemy.
He throws his full fury against my gates,
Yet his desperate siege crumbles into ash.
Plunging blindly through the very thresholds of ruin,
He falls into the dark abyss he opened
To pay his final, bleeding debt.
Gather glass, metal and salt and lay in corner of door.
Make the spell and imagine a gift for Sire Marcus Barracus.
The Crocked souls final Toll
In the veil of darkness,
There creeps the crooked ugly dark soul
Who opened Hell’s door
With a key stolen from the gate keeper
Hiding so nobody sees it
Looting anything worth coin and pure
With a dark plan within its soul
How to resurrect its self
As an innocent soul
As it envisions itself as dignitary
Throwing its sulphur glare
At folk who challenged it
It couldn’t hold its contempt to long
As Hell’s bells rang
Then folk’s sudden realisation
It was stealing from them
They took the key and prey tell
It got caught and thrown back into Hell.
Every day my soul shines a little brighter,
And my self-image grows stronger,
My mind goes on less of a wander,
I no longer get cold feet,
when the people I meet,
think my company is hard to beat.
Beautiful people,
With souls a wonderful shade of purple,
That shine brighter than the sun,
And are twice as much fun.
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