Written: August 17, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Tania Kitchin
Checked by HMS.COM/ 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 7 -
**************
in the hush of dusk
my sandals brush dry grasses
the day's warmth fading
crickets sing of letting go
and i breathe in the new chill
I look up to the sky, waiting
as the swirling clouds crash
they have an endless movement
and today they are full of tears . . .
I hear the rumbling thunder
see the lightning flashing
and then, the rain is falling in torrents
the clouds spill a thousand secrets
those raindrops hold all my secret pain
and all my grief
all my forever longing
and a thousand tears
that I keep within me ~
I wear mask to hide my weeping and it is only when it rains
that I can cry . . .
I dance with the raindrops and feel them touching me
oh, like a fairy princess, I twirl and swirl and dance
just let go they whisper . . . . and then,
the sun comes out and everything is sparkling and there is a hush
of beauty . . .
A winding, desolate road stands before me,
Covered in white ashy soot.
As nuclear winter stagnates,
Grey corpse clouds spill a thousand secrets,
While asphyxiating dust cakes a boarded-up shack in the faint distance.
Loneliness settles into obsolete bones.
I've been searching for what feels like eons now,
For any semblance of humanity.
Scarcity of food looms with each passing second,
For even the few remaining animals have become paper-thin,
Their skeletons protruding through stretched flesh.
A bitter cold silently encompasses the atmosphere.
Summer evaporated that fateful day,
Never to come again.
Continuing my treacherous trek,
I come upon the frost-tipped shack.
Peering through the gaps of a door half blown away by the aftershocks,
Hope dies, as once again, emptiness is all I find.
My eyes well with tears, only to be interrupted by an uncontrollable cough.
Spitting blood into my hand, the symptoms are getting worse.
Residual radiation is taking its toll.
Death's warm embrace will be welcomed.
But until that fateful day, I continue this journey alone,
Perpetually seeking any voice to ring out in a macabre, self-fulfilling apocalypse.
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
~Langston Hughes
The clouds spill a thousand secrets
but keep ten thousand regrets
ensconced within the billowy frames
of a life lived with all its shames.
The shame of greed,
the shame of need,
the shame of selfishness,
the shame that leads to wretchedness.
I’ve been told that clouds are wise
and provide the waters to baptize,
drown the sins that keep us bound
And set our feet on higher ground.
Words.
They don't.
Come up.
Struggle.
My words.
What I want.
I know.
To tell you?
How?
Not right.
You.
Understand?
Misinterprete?
Please don't.
Too hard.
Words.
.
think
than tenebrific thought
tap
"The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event where you
go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different,
and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?"
J. B. Priestley
I raise wistful eyes aloft to mountain tops,
wearing knitted snowy white shawls.
As I pretend fresh snow silently drops,
I am a princess, behind stone castle walls.
Crystalline flakes kiss limbs of pine trees.
In starlight's glow, eloquence is serene
From turret window, I feel a frigid breeze
in this hushed winter world, pristine.
Silvered moonlight glows across each hill.
From canopied forest a proud prince emerges.
From the sky, sparkling snowflakes spill
and my heart beats with romantic urges.
Near enough to behold his handsome face,
the creaking drawbridge pleases my ears.
Tonight, snowy mountain will be a happy place
for I'll taste his lips mingled with tears.
In entrancing snow globe realms, I dwell,
my fertile imagination is divine.
As a princess, I can cast a spell
over reveries I call... 'forever mine.'
Santa is ready for his big flight,
Rudolph's red nose is really bright.
Santa's big bag is toy filled,
that elf over there is unskilled.
Will there be cold snow of white?
Elf's can be cute but very small,
wishing Santa would make them tall.
Santa said eat lots of fish,
as you make your tall wish.
Out of his bag came a new red ball.
Elf's always want to have some fun,
jumping on Rudolph now run, run.
Santa wanted to kill,
everyone took a nasty spill.
The crazy night of fun was done.
If we don't spill blood
Then we won't have any food.
My children need food.
Lately, my passion lies in poetry’s embrace,
Quenching my soul’s thirst in this sacred space.
The newborn’s cries inspire the lines I weave,
Leaving them behind, in their form, I believe.
My heart is torn, in tatters and frayed,
I write my verses with a shaky hand laid.
One day, this paper, with my thoughts laid bare,
Will be cast aside, as if no one would care.
I spill my thoughts onto sheets of white,
Relentlessly, my pen takes flight.
If I fail to share what’s in my mind,
Is there any use for paper left behind?
To spill one’s guts ‘tis hard to do ~
though the pressure's like a tight corkscrew
Starve the mouth when its the soul thats hungry
Push the pen until the fingers bleed
Crack open the chest baring the inner world
Neverminding the possibility of being left empty
I will always spill myself for you
Note this poem was written some time ago but I was sick and deleted my site. I have been patiently reposting my poems since 9 October 2000.
On November 13, 2002. The Prestige, one of twelve tanks burst during a storm off Galicia, in northwestern Spain. No help was forthcoming and by November 19, the ship split in half. 20 million gallons were spilled into the sea.
Beneath the heavy dark clouds,
the storm broke.
An oil-filled tanker sank
spewing black lakes of murderous slime.
What a giant "Prestige"!
Despite the roar of untamed waves
there was a deadly hush over the ocean.
A low death knell sang a purgatory of pain,
as contaminated birds of gulls, orioles, kestrels
squawked their last dirge:
What a giant "Prestige"!
Too late men stretched their ingenuity,
a desire to save and spare
the livelihood of so many families
that sailed the oil-spilled seas,
where baby dead fish dotted the surface,
sands and rocks tainted with death.
Elsewhere engineers burned their chemical gases
and smoke escaped from the earth's fragile shell.
We all have our "Prestige"!
Written 2016
For the thrill of writing to be exciting a reading mind…
by taking the time to write a rhyme in rhythm…
shot from this poetry imprisoned prism like mind of mine….
I’m tussling words like a busker busking melodies from famous songs covering…
words on paper smothered in from my ink spill…
uttering unspoken words speaking my will cluttering thoughts leaking…
weakening thoughts..jittering…from the air chill as I recite this ink spill..I will with my might…
I might as well dwell within that imprisoned prism I’m locked in…right?
-Peter T. DeSpirito
Can napkins not esteem or honour
a history of being placed gently on laps
to catch, take hold of,
what is carelessly spilled or dropped,
used then to pat lips
before being rumpled tenderly, after eating,
and placed carefully at one's side?
At a table in a bar,
a paper napkin on my lap,
I look at friends:
they have their napkins
sitting at the sides of their plates,
on that table, folded, ignored, untouched.
Is there something wrong with me?
(11 Dec 2023)
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