¦¦¦ breath of wind,
¦¦¦ gleam of sun –
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ white snow
Whirls ¦¦¦¦¦¦ down
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
All ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
Quiet, forlorn.
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ rustling,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ the air
¦¦¦ still and ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ - everywhere,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ its powdery
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ flakes,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
Stoops ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ wint’ry ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ feathered ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ghosts ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
A robin shrills
His ¦¦¦¦¦¦ tune.
(Blackout of Snow by John Davidson)
Before the first dawn broke the night,
You knew my name, You held my frame.
You're not just a judge of cosmic might,
But my "Father"—the most tender name.
When footsteps stumble, weak and blind,
And shadows stretch across the floor,
It’s Your patient hand I find,
Guiding through the open door.
You do not count my deep regrets,
Nor turn away when I am weak.
Your grace remembers, love forgets,
Giving the peace my soul would seek.
Like a father holds his frightened child
Against the booming thunder and the heavy rain,
Your quiet voice, so calm and mild,
Whispers that I will rise again.
The grandest King, the Creator, the greatest Architect,
Who spun the stars and set the sea,
Yet stoops to love, shield, and protect—
A perfect Father, holding me.
Hauling gravel.
A bath filled with seaweed.
Burbles near the stars.
While seeking.
Mental illness is one.
Grappling hooks turned inwards.
Very grave like a bowl of coffee grounds.
Smells ground.
As I grab a speech bubble which can translate anything.
It doesn’t pop.
All I say is-
Gloop.
And the mental illness stoops lower.
It’s in second place, while I’m in third, and guess what? My least favorite movie is first.
Surrender
stoops in darkness
Defeat
its noble kin
Valor weeps
on bended knee
Honor lost
— when blood runs thin
***
The Pen
Words attack
the armor
of every
given age
To right the wrongs
all shields prolong
their pen attacks
— with rage
***
Leaving Old Choices
Tunneling out
of mortality
Inching my way
toward the light
Leaving old choices
of dire repute
Trading ill fortune
— for heaven’s delight
(The First Book Of Prayers: May, 2026)
Evening murmurs quietness,
Quietness reflects fright,
Fright stoops the soul,
Soul needs bright,
Bright evaporates the shadow,
Shadow cracks night.
Night brings trouble,
Trouble creates discomfort,
Discomfort nurtures the darkness,
Darkness embeds courage,
Courage expects for morning,
Morning kills night.
Night shows the scuffle,
Scuffle breeds power,
Power lifts the drained,
Drained discovers dawn,
Dawn pinnacles the voyage,
Voyage leaves nightfall.
Poem by Mugisho N.T.
In the dim and distant past, i cycled around
Slow and fast, past sleepy houses, on small city blocks.' In the morning fresh when its not yet hot ' sometimes a daring
Cat shot in front, aloof and sleek, no play for me then on bots..I recall the rich sent of
Fresh cut lawn, before the day would swallow, this placid morn' i recall milk bottles sitting on front door stoops, as pidgeons scattering, as the hawk broke loose, out a of a blue yonder, with whistling
Wings, echoing the sound of my bike wheels, as i turn for home i hear the church
Bell ring.'
You can't halt the falling sand
nor still the clock's relentless hand.
But you can kindle each grain as it falls
to relish each gleam, each joy it recalls.
A good laugh can stretch any hour,
a dance crowns each minute with power.
Rage against the ravages of fading light,
fling wide the shadows calling in the night.
Age is not the thief we fear—
Let its toll, draw us near
to linger longer, hearts together,
drifting softly down like a feather.
You can’t add days to life’s brief rhyme,
but you can inflate each tick of time.
When the dealer stoops low to call the game,
go all in, with eyes bright, a living flame.
We knew Thee not—O Quiet King—
When Prison’s Gate was near—
Nor guessed Thy Step in Ragged Cloth
Nor heard Thy Voice—so clear—
We passed The Sick with hurried Breath—
The Hungry with bowed Head—
Yet Heaven watched the smallest Crust
By trembling Fingers—fed—
And when the Last Accounting came—
Thy mild, astonished Word—
Declared the Cup we gave the Least
Was lifted—to the Lord—
For Mercy—wears a Common Face—
And walks the Dusty Street—
The Soul that stoops to bind a wound—
Has knelt—at Jesus’ Feet—
Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.
they sit outside the penny candy store,
old men slap dominoes on chipped tables,
smoke curling up like prayers
their wives gave up saying.
i lean on the fire escape,
watch them call me mami
like it’s my birthright —
call me solid, thick like the block,
hips wide enough to hold the gossip
and still swing.
they say ju got that caramel skin,
that soft bite in your mouth
when you try to say sweet —
they say i’m loud, i’m stubborn,
i argue with my hands and my hips,
i got too much to say for a girl
that comes from stoops and window sills.
but this is my gospel —
my curvy body a prayer,
my no’s a sermon,
my laugh breaks their cigar smoke,
my name rides the domino slam —
mira, mami, this girl ain’t leaving
her corner for nobody.
Did you hear about the rose
that bloomed in Harlem-
through concrete cracks, through chaos,
through prayers gone thin in steam?
A winter rose
shouldn’t bloom in this blaze-
but you, baby girl, unfold anyway.
Concrete beneath you,
sirens above,
a million ghosts whispering tough love.
You glide past bodegas and busted swings,
past aunties hollering from painted stoops,
past brothers pacing—palms tight with truth.
I watch your curls bounce down One-One-Four,
your laugh a lavender miracle,
soft, sure,
still surviving-
thriving-
in a garden that forgets to welcome
delicate things.
Still, I worry-
that the city might carve its name
into your softness
before you know
you are sacred.
That the sidewalk might swallow you
before you burst.
But Wynter,
you are no damsel,
no flower waiting for rescue.
You are named for frost,
raised in fire,
rooted in rhythms older than this street.
You rise with sunlight,
spin storms into dance,
and grow wild-
like you’ve always known
you could.
You stood behind, not saying much,
Yet in the hush, I felt your touch.
The mirror framed our quiet grace,
Two souls in love, one warm embrace.
You'd watch me comb, your eyes so still,
The room would breathe against your will.
No need for words, your gaze would speak—
Of stolen time, of hearts made weak.
You'd press me close against the wall,
And in that hush, I had it all.
Your fingers whispered on my skin,
Like love too big to hold within.
I’d laugh, and you would just observe,
That smile of yours I didn’t deserve.
But in your eyes, I caught the flame,
Of someone scared to play love’s game.
Now memories play on quiet loops,
In every pause, your shadow stoops.
Though we’ve outgrown what once felt true,
In those small moments, I had you.
A late March thundershower floats toward me
Like a plucked flower
Handed over on a walk to a lover
With a smile
Down this afternoon path
That breezes past
Spring-born ponds
Erupting
Of Peepers ululating and Chorus Frogs ratcheting
In a wave of Gnawa music.
The surface
Puckers
Diacritic raindrops
Slowly
Softly
Each plop and their purple ripple
Has not enough splash
To generate an echo
From the reedy shore.
The storm not so strong to hide the sun
For long
To move a wind
Or slice the sky with lightning
Rolls by with quiet thunder
Wetting my hair and all the early blossoms.
My spirit lifts while its shadow stoops
Cups the mud.
This gentle stir
Today
Seems to awaken and nudge the air
Just enough
To take His hand
Away
Sets free
The spring Dove
From his fist
Writes its wings in a mist
Changes his mind from Him to Her.
Spectacular serene sapphire sky stoops
Low to tame tumultuous foamy wild waves !
COLLECTION
VIDUAGE
Tall
nettles-
the dutch hoe
rusting in the
shed.
Lanterne #5
a
sea mist
rolls inshore-
daydreams deluge
me
Lanterne#18
Blind
alleys
so often
have the deepest
ruts.
Lanterne 3
By
a stream
so shallow-
stoops a willow
tree.
Lanterne 177
May
blossom-
confetti
dancing on the
breeze
ART SCHOOL
The
secret
of seeing-
knowing how to
see
RISING STAR
A
life in
the fast lane-
five minutes of
fame.
as a LANTERNE ALMANAC
WINTER
in
anger-
whips up the waves,
pounds the shingle
shore
SPRING
in
action-
brings to life
and feathers its
nest
SUMMER
so
lazy-
rests the soul
and flowers the
land
AUTUMN
so
mellow-
scents and sounds
in the harvest
home.
DRIFTING
our
feelings
subside as
we go with the
flow
Sub Categories
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