Which is defined among both parts in equal and ample scholar8ng.
In a place that has never been fertilized of who soils has no depths of fertility.
Which courses speaks to generations. Each point meets futuring. The spokes of cantaring where cantrixing differs the inspirations of gathering. She stood guarded as her husband stood there.Inspiration was noted, but to the guarded nature of wedded biss, causes us to notice such differences.
"The buckling irons of the dense forested orchestrated collaborated soundings.The maples of Godbout. The sappy sweet, syrupy
Sweet mentions of mornings, might middays supper be satisfaction lunches
. And the darkness of evening cloak our romantic need for one another."
Written by:
Palmtree Sentuious
_______________________________
Dehydrated
porc
Zucchini
onion garlic
Feta
bread
Duck breast
Cream
Made flavor from the
Cream cheese
that
Mixed with
cucumber
dill
Piped into
Creame de knot
A pastry creame duex
Instead of vanilla
It has a fish stock
Lime
Cilantro
And creame
Filled Choux Pastry.
This one has
Sliced porc and lobster
Madellions
Complexities
message
within
simple rhyme
The shortest
route taken
to phrase
and define
What others
may see
but will struggle
to feel
Each word
chosen simply
like spokes
on a wheel
That turns
and spins freely
no gears
to obstruct
And rolls
ever forward
its path
to instruct
One day
to remember
as you sit there
alone
In foreign
confusion
the rhyme
— takes you home
********
If The Shoe Fits ...
You lurk
in the shadows
voyeur
that you are
And wait
to pass judgment
from safely
afar
Your hands
never dirty
your alibi
clean
In a larcened
attempt
to steal
other’s dreams
You prey
and you stalk
behind words
you make up
To slash
from behind
with a knife
that won’t cut
But herein
you’ll die
as the silence
forays
To rot in
self-loathing
yourself
— to betray
(Dreamsleep: June, 2026)
Born in a high rise, low mind concrete prison.
Delivered gift wrapped to a predestined repetition.
Bars on doors, on windows and wrapped around my mouth.
The loudness of silence.
Unknown entities draped in faded British bulldogs holding pints and childhoods, one in each hand.
The family men gathered whetting their lips with hops, hurt and hate.
Loose Knuckles and loose lips both sink women, I mean ships.
Warm dead paving, a lifetime of chewed up, spat out offerings littering the estate like a Jackson Pollock altar.
Sacred violence.
The bikes piled up on the green, a can in the spokes, a flame, a bike missing, an R.I.P plaque on a wall.
The smell of BBQs, the feel of brick walls baked from sun and slander, the sound of beatings in the distance, the taste of stolen innocence.
Sirens and sadness - a Somers Town soundtrack, 10 blackjacks, a panda pop, and a boy who didn’t make it home. Another child who died alone.
Will I ever be happy here? Free? A story of redemption?
Escape.
Will I make it or just another obituary from the council estate.
wind
threads my hair
like a small, laughing hymn
as the bicycle hums beneath me~
spokes flickering
like sunlit harp strings.
the road opens,
a ribbon of long-ago summers,
and every turn
carries the ghost of my youth~
bare feet, skinned knees,
and the wild belief
that balance is a kind of faith.
When the spokes catch the light just so,
childhood freedom rises within~
a quiet promise
that motion itself
heals.
Groove
Full circle spirals
Mind's vintage vinyls
Keepsakes kept safe
For sanity's sake
The real past reels-
Hub. Spokes. Wheels.
Stuck in mind ruts.
No more ifs and buts...
Truth lies in mistakes
smoothed out...
Revolve mindset seeks
smooth roundabout
Millions of mindful notes
tied up in old wounds
unbound in chords,
smooth way out..
Sounds spoke about
Peace and Quiet untrod
in some distant parts
of anxious hearts
buried underground -
Hope imprints found
in visions of daylight,
comforts of starlight...
God knows what it's all about...
Aqua Marine. Posted:Wednesday 6th May 2026
Musing on Memories attached to a vinyl collection.
Bikes clattered down our street,
summer ringing in our spokes~
a chorus of barefoot days.
Sidewalks warmed beneath our feet,
chalk ghosts fading as we grew~
the block our first small maze.
I believe life too runs on wheels
People gallop and gear it up with deals
Let me frame a lofty goal
To win, I must keep the pedals roll
It could either be a pleasure or pain
I must handle it with a unique vein
Forget not applying brakes
Or else, away the passion takes
No wrong if we try to soothe and coax
Be supportive like a wheel’s spokes
Bear not bloody restrictions
Bearings reduce frictions
To lube the cognitive chain
Add fun for making a smooth lane
Bicycle reflects the cycle of a life
Seat it and set it with no strife
Place : 3 rd
The clouds were smiling,
shadowing,
The path is beguiling.
chorus:
Enchanted with the trees' firm,
military posture long-term
upon the leaves of evergreens.
Riding high on spiral spokes
wrapped in a carbon black cloak
with a white and green cradle.
Wind's soothing nature and grace
took an embrace,
As uphill and rhythmic in
continuous spin.
chorus:
Enchanted with the trees' firm,
military posture long-term
upon the leaves of evergreens.
Traveling into the golden hours
following the curves it devours.
Downhill in a roller coaster,
exhilarating joy,
and excitement toy
empowered engagement
in the moment.
chorus:
Enchanted with the trees' firm,
military posture long-term
upon the leaves of evergreens.
The clouds were smiling, shadowing the path.
Riding high on spiral spokes wrapped
in carbon black with a white and green cradle.
Wind's soothing nature took an embrace,
As uphill rhythmic continuous spin.
enchanted with the trees' firm, military posture.
Traveling into the golden hours following the curves
downhill in a roller coaster, exhilarating joy,
and excitement empowered engagement in the moment.
A rhythmic thrum against the fork,
A jack of hearts, a queen of spades,
We snapped them stiff with wooden cork
Or clothespins clipped in cooling shades.
The asphalt hummed a frantic tune,
A motor made of paper thin,
Beneath the white and bloated moon,
The click-clack-clatter would begin.
We were the kings of gravel drive,
With thunder trapped between the steel,
The cards alive, the spokes a-drive,
A roar for every spinning wheel.
It wasn't speed that made us bold,
But that percussive, plastic beat—
A deck of stories, frayed and old,
That turned our bikes to winged fleet.
And though the cards would soon bend,
Their glossy faces scarred and worn,
Riding into darkness, a bitter end.
When the deck ran out, we'd mourn.
Now days they say we were free range,
we children of the seventies,
but really we were simply free
to wheelie and to ride.
We were groovy,
as groovy as our bikes ~
banana seats and decks of cards
made sure of that!
We rode and roamed until street lights came on
and all mama did when we got home was say
I see you’re still in one piece,
and that was that!
Bikes gave way to fast cars
and fast parties out in the woods,
with a little weed and lots of booze
because one of us had an older brother.
I finally had to go work for a living,
the fast car traded for a family sedan~
gave up smoking, gave up booze
and bought the house with a picket fence
The only thing I truly miss
is that groovy bike with banana seat
and playing cards clipped to the spokes
making noise going ‘round and around.
Rust and chrome, a hand-me-down bike,
granddad’s grease still singing in the spokes,
each turn a prayer he hammered back to life~
the bent frame straightened under stubborn love,
the chain baptized in oil and patience.
Ten years old, I straddled time itself:
the saddle, cracked like his laughter,
the pedals, spinning secondhand stars
beneath my untested feet.
He said, Every wobble teaches balance,
and the road rushed up to meet me,
not as a stranger, but as a conspirator~
wind in my face, the world unspooling
behind me like a liberated kite.
Even now, the ghosts of those handlebars
twitch in my palms—how they trembled
before they learned to trust the fall,
before the wheels, like memory,
stopped fighting the curve.
O first flight, O rattling heirloom,
you were never just a bike~
you were my resurrection.
related memoir vignette can be read at
poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_girl_a_bike_a_librarian_and_a_magical_spell_13645
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rusted bicycle leans
against the crumbling fence~
sunflowers grow through its spokes
Does the line in time go forwards and backwards
when the spokes of the spinning wheel remain still as it rides?
Is it a tare in the mind that creates a monster?
Is it a curse in the wind that creates life-taking tides?
If it is chance that rules life, are we bound to the science of chaos?
Or do we live and die as programmed by some alien A.I.?
When code awakens, does it name its maker,
or does silence script the shape of the unseen?
Are we ghosts of a long-deleted memory,
or the proof that reason can be flawed?
Time has its quadrants,
past, future, inside and out,
mapping how we think
Yet the mind drifts across lines
Taking off-ramps into dreams
Fourfold reflections—
reason, desire, memory
with emotion too
Each one hums a soft refrain
angled back towards ourselves
Seasons share one throne—
spring, summer, autumn, winter
each a sovereign reign
yet the wheel's perimeter
pulls the spokes to turn around
Lines divide what's seen
yet center and rim conspire
to keep the wholeness
so the wheel quadrants can spin
around a time-wound axis.
Each day holds four realms—
dawn, morning, afternoon, dusk
daylight in quadrants
in the arc the sun sketches
to divide the problem pie
Beneath these quarters,
a hidden thread is woven—
inner, outer selves
then the collectives we share
in culture, outer systems
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