each morn reborn an urge arises
to pen some words on God’s bliss hum
our prayer is a whisper in the void
yearning to align with the cosmic drum
mind-body vessel drifts through space
within consciousness, a small bubble
gross vibrations from it have departed
all that remains now is a small stubble
bliss magnetism has something to say
benign burn both cajoling and compelling
we are reeled in to the now continuum
where perhaps residual fears need quelling
Far right polemic is rehearsed
Hubble bubble toil and trouble
Insanity.. humanity at its worst
Together can burst their bubble
Or in the sh*t forever immersed
Burns and then turns to rubble
As damn it our planet is cursed
We need to do this at the double
Earth’s our home must be nursed
If not then we’re all in real trouble
Climate crises cannot be reversed
Don’t need a telescope like Hubble
The sea rises our cities submersed
Infanticide.. boys won’t get stubble
As all our kids’ futures are hearsed
Just hubble trouble boil and bubble
In AI’s lies we’re now all well versed
Lust for bust as cash must be pursed
I watch flecks of stubble sadly float.
They have no hope. They have no boat.
Their chances are remote.
So, it provides them no cheer, I think,
that they'll drain down a slow sink.
I look down with a hint of fear
to see my feet, then legs, disappear.
This must be quicksand. I say "Oh dear";
and my form begins to shrink
as into the earth, I slowly sink.
I watch the sun set in the West
and ask, "Should I be depressed
or be glad that my life's been blessed?"
It replies by turning the sky pink,
and begins to slowly sink.
I watch my body disintegrate
as I only gradually meet a fate
that doctors try to mitigate.
In a word, I'd say, it "stinks",
this somber, sunless, sad slow sink.
a satiric
spunky sperm
twisty tippytoe
through the
outdoor civilization
renewing fairway
to engorge
prospect goat
recasting stubble
noninfectious vibrational
hubbub pyrophobia
luridness hallelujah
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 3–9, 2026)
stubble in voider
I was always through prospect
renewing again
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 3–9, 2026)
Lisbon, Cuba, Romania.
Where else could I go?
I wish I could enjoy the run, but your shadow engulfs the view.
I wish I could change my name, but my body is vexed with yours.
I wish I could leave you behind, but I always leave a trail of fear for you to sniff out.
Like a panther, memorising the luxurious, frantic pounding of my heart.
A shameless part of me thrills at the hunt.
The music blasts in my ears, a roaming beat that caves my heart in remembrance of you.
And of how you never really stay in remembrance.
I loathe you.
The rough stubble I cannot resist, the black swallowing me along with your irises, the way you breath my name, so electrifying and so utterly haunting.
I hate you.
And I hate how deliciously and desperately I crave you.
I want to vanish.
I want to hide.
I want to win this round.
And in the next round I want you to find me.
I want you to bite me.
I want you to pull my hair and tell me I have nothing beyond the bars of your arms.
I want to run forever.
I want to fight forever.
I want to be yours forever.
Hunt me.
Kill me.
Love me.
My Luna
The moon
Was full the night I said goodbye
I saw the spirit fade
From your pained eyes
I saw the breaths stop and felt your heavy head
I'll miss your bulk
Upon my bed
Your fur
On every surface
Your greed
Your paws that opened the fridge
And found the cheese and I could throw any food onto the floor
And you'd hoover it up
I miss the raided bin
Evidenced by tins and licked packets
The way you barked when someone dared to pass the window in the night
Your beautiful face
Your love of life
You running through the stubble
Or chasing squirrels
I hope you'll stay with me
In spirit
I think of you every second
Your mischief mirrored my own
My friend
I love you
Rest in peace sweet girl
Luna
Forever
Light skates across her dreamy eyes,
Where stubble-faced strangers drift and pass,
Long and lone, they glimmer past,
Darker shadows of yesteryore.
Into the night she walks, no fright,
Through the lonely shades of winding streets,
Ornating the night with her scents,
Drawing lingering pollen bees.
As the lights slowly fade and low,
She loses faith in lucky draws,
For a morsel of fleeting bread,
Her longing eyes drift back home.
At last, a motor roars and hums,
A ghost of wealth gliding past,
Along the way to nightly feasts,
While silent eyes still long for home.
Short stubble streaked with gray
A scarred face and eyes that know
It’s a decade short of the crisis
But forty is already in tow.
And still the mirror gives nothing back,
but fogged glass, only my breath -
a cloud dissolving, like my life before,
a gasp, years it cannot hold.
Goodbye cuts the air
with an odd, misshapen lance-
too sharp to swallow
it lingers on ragged breath
it's aftertaste scalds the soul
It feeds like a beast
clawing at the heart's locked gate
demanding more tears
its anger never subsides
its hunger never sated
Yet inside the wound
a new dawn begins to break
away from parting
sweetening bitter sorrows
with a palatable sauce
Goodbye has a seed,
to be cast in barren fields
fragile and daring
when given a chance to grow
now the stubble has been cleared
Kneading the old clay,
we shape what remains behind,
sculpting mementos
into what can not be done
before the goodbyes are said
Each farewell when made
to echo in memories,
fierce, bitter, and sad
can welcome what's to follow
by seeing sorrow as sweet
Your color-bled cloth
Just rips at my stitches
I’m monotone; a moth
Calling out to you
With my heavy, little wishes
Fed a steady diet of tweed coat pockets
Bleached in forever stains
And tie dye kisses
In whole, I find a part of me
Your heart sorely misses
Amends for all the faint mistakes
Unearthed while I was bluffing
I perch upon your buttons now
Whispering sweet nothings
Your pettiness is soaking through
Neglected, I’m in love with you
In debt to all your gems
Ugly-headed beauty kills the demons
Yet you’re dressed in them
Another thread of fabric
Slipping from your hem
At least that’s where it seems to me
Your problems mostly stem
Floating and receding
Through the headwinds I’m receiving
Tossed into a better time
Where all your soapy bubbles
Stung my eyes and pierced my stubble
Left me weak and kneeling
Between the lines, my soul would cry
But moths were never known for feeling
I’d crawl to find a warmer spot
Deep inside your shell
Ferocious in its absence
There was solace in your smell
Now my hunger softens
If only for a spell
Who you wished for me to be
Oh, I could never tell
When winter winds have withered stubble,
Mother Mary maddens me,
whispering words of wonder:
what are we?
I find the farm a fraction futile,
loving life in Larame:
take the truck to Tucson, Tina
or Tracy, Tennessee.
Aardvarks are mere armadillos,
such as subtle souls can see:
pecans suck for plumping pillows:
chambermaids are chowder-free.
Santa Clara’s not a state,
a splurge is not a spree:
Grindr Graham isn’t straight:
Superior ain’t no sea.
A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long-truncated railroad stop
humming still with a faded reality.
As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.
Caps, coats, and carts
Sweat, rustle and creak,
an invisible locomotion of leaving and arrival.
employed upon an iron labor.
The tall dry weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle
as they wait here or idle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its innards now
are a nest for ticking birds.
Dandelions anticipate twirling flight
under a corn fed sun.
A mid-day heat thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive
as if its bygone world
had not forever disembarked.
We wanted to break bread
that was pure, clean, pristine,
stark white and wholesome,
with a crisp, but soft,
light brown crust.
The field was prepared with
thrice washed and cleaned machinery,
and spread with N, P, K fertilizer
applied overhead.
The soils was filtered to remove
all weeds, sticks and stones,
stubble and rubble,
so it was homogeneous,
with a uniform grain size,
The wheat seed was a proven,
ancient old world genotype,
with its genome still intact.
The seed was milled to remove
all traces of wheat germ and bran,
then twice bleached to stark white.
The dough was leavened with soda
and baked well-timed,
in a clean fan-draft oven,
at just the right temperature,
for just the right time.
Behold! There we have it!
Our pure white bread,
wholesome and perfect,
in every way, that we break
for breakfast at break of day.
Every work we have
Is measured in gold in heaven.
Everything we do here,
Is tried by fire to know what material we are made of
Is your material built by gold, hay or stubble.
Everything that is gold will be saved.
Everything that eaten by fire is justice from God discretion if save.
The soul is the business of God for salvation.
A wise always look at the end of life,
The fool is a lazy fortune seeker.
Train yourself to be industrious in everything that you do,
Here or hereafter in life.
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