Trigger Warning:
This poem contains themes of toxic relationships, manipulation, emotional abuse, and references to suicidal threats. Please read with care.
I am too alive to die,
But too dead to live
Meeting you was a slow burn,
Like a burn given by cig.
Started with breaking friendships,
And then you hated to see—
simple dinners with family,
Me just trying to be.
"I want you to myself"
"You don't give me enough time"
"I'll kill myself if you ignore."
"You better stay in line."
I didn't want anyone to hurt,
So I always complied.
You quoted this was love,
And I believed your lies.
It has become the past now,
And I know it wasn't love.
But the bitter taste still lingers
And it stays like ash in my lungs.
The plumber man fell asleep
with ash on his lips, losing
track of his cerebral train
John Boy with his stained new teeth
and guns of oil on his stone hands
Paining tires, chainsaws, the
garage ceiling
seasoning the turning of a leaf
John Boy's hounds piss on the porch
warping wood with smoke and sulfur
Is shooting blind since the judge took
his gun from his holster
John Boy stopped drinking a little too late
his brain full of holes, just like
a tree trunk to a woodpecker's peck
As he drunkenly recants the psalm
'I get no respect!'
hand crafted culture
forged by hands, glass and metal
a voice from the past
we stand in silence
awe struck
amazed by color, form and shape
in any room
we are transformed
into a kaleidoscope of color
as sunlight breaks through
each glass piece
a masterpiece is formed
a medium of expression
telling a story
through great craftsmanship
of love and creativity
creating a work of art
All that was left were remnants
of shattered memories ~ emblazoned
in my mind,
as if it was all still there,
when Sunday salvation was
at peace with the sun
and sermons of love were
bled in glass...
now shards on the chapel floor,
and, like sand castles on the shore
were washed away in an angry tide
where waning life stained the sand
crimson red...
and lead was rained in bullets,
not to frame etherial light.
Sacrifice has an ambience of more
than just ~ pretty colors...
Written June 12, 26
for Nette's "All That Glass" contest
My window on the world resonates
with the resounding chorus of colors.
The passing light creates a montage
of charismatic chromatic geometry.
At noon, I see the radiance of ruby,
tempering to tinge of topaz at dusk.
The kaleidoscope of transmuted light
refracts the stained rays of my longing.
moons light, peaks through
church's stained-glass windows
rainbow reflection
With a nascent sun outpouring,
Sunlight streams through
STAINED GLASS WINDOW,
Imprinting a mosaic-mirrored rainbow
Upon a slate-gray, shadowed floor
Of a calm, refined room.
Specks of dust slow dance with each other
Upward in a gentle sway from side to side.
Tipped, deep breath blown,
Fades in stardust.
The soul's window becomes a portal.
Of flickering colored light
For the physical,
Mental, emotional, and spiritual self.
Each day marks a fresh birth
In the flow of the world.
Contest: All that glass
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Date: 10.06.2026
Casting dappled coloured shadows
on darkened streets at night
The chapel's stained glass window glows
like a hued beacon bright
Giving out the message of hope
on a moonless night black
Watching its glints, one can then cope
with life's any attack
Shades of maroon bleed on the street
with golden yellow tints
Tinges of soft blue and green meet
to highlight subtle hints
The chapel's open at all times
Even at twelve midnight
The stained window reflects and chimes
that Jesus is The Light.
The cathedral is adorned
with wonderful stained glass windows
Each piece is unique
framed in lead
They reminiscent of
countless gorgeous patterns
in a kaleidoscope
- with many different symmetries
A work of art with aesthetic value
which often tells a story
Catching rays of sunlight
in all the colors of the rainbow
Even if it rains
light shines through
The stained glass breaks the morning light,
each shard a tale the sun rewrites;
ruby deepens with reverent air~
within this colored prayer.
Gold spills like vows the day once kept,
soft warmth where shadow long has slept;
green climbs toward grace suspended there~
within this colored prayer.
Sapphire pools where lost dreams return,
a quiet place where sorrows learn;
its blues restore what hearts can bear~
within this colored prayer.
I stand before its living flame,
a mosaic stitched from hope and shame;
it teaches how the broken fare~
within this colored prayer.
Six square panes, so varied and solid,
In painted arrays of quiet and light,
Four windows per side, a glorious sight.
Of eight casting shadows on wood-grain and rite.
On Sunday, the benches hold twenty souls,
With standing room only in pious rows,
Embracing the flock as the morning wind blows.
Across the green of the country lane, resting
Beyond the pale borders of Protestant ground,
The Catholic services welcome the weary
At The Painted Church, the painted panes are found.
Yet both of the steeples reach up to the blue.
*In the 90’s, lava destroyed the Protestant Church that was later rebuilt in the main town. The Catholic Church, best known as The Painted Church, was lifted onto an 18-wheeler flatbed to a secluded spot, one mile from where the lava flow came to an end. Father Damien made it of historic significance.
They call thee stained, as though some fault were found,
In your pure transparency, cast as sad and frowned,
With the blemishes spread upon thy pure crystal face;
When color trespassed upon your virginal grace.
Yet what is glass but a fluid rich glow, a kin
To a sunbeam caught and taught to dwell within?
To show its ruby dawns and blue sapphire seas,
To warm a dawn, enlighten it, with a colored breeze.
Glass is not disgraced by what it yens to bear;
Blue rivers moving through regal saintly pure air,
Greens and yellows glowing upon an open pane.
Crimson hearts imbibed with red, to gleam again.
The dyes once poured into a molten glass's glow
Makes scenes much richer than plain glass can show.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She felt the cobblestones like braille beneath her worn boots' sigh,
her shadow stretched, a thin companion, 'neath the bruised-blue sky.
The spires clawed the clouds apart, stone fingers scraping light,
to catch the fractured evening sun in panes of jeweled might.
Her steps grew slow, a pilgrim's pace on faith-eroded ground,
then silence roared – that holy hush where all lost prayers are found.
I will turn back, back the pages,
to my childhood and autumn trees;
lovely- the decaying stages,
leaves hued fluttering in the breeze !
Lived in a cabin- I cherished,
I will turn back, back the pages;
oh, hated that the leaves perished,
divine colors as each ages !
The gold leaves shone like sun sages,
the maples dressed in crimson red;
I will turn back, back the pages,
where orange, purple, and gold bled !
This memory I keep- sublime,
oh, then the wind comes and rages;
and stained glass leaves drift into time,
I will turn back, back the pages !
Holes in his jeans
give a telling impression
small tattoo drawn
across his midsection
Boots have been worn down
loosing most of its tread
Tent along the river
is where he laid his bed
Stain on his teeth
you can only see with a smile
Enjoying a home cooked meal
has been quite a while
Something in his eyes
says nothing's okay
he rarely makes eye contact
always looking away
He feels the judgement come
from you and me
"I am a person like everyone else,
can't you see?"
There's no help coming
to give him a home
Endless train tracks
he will continue to roam.
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