I have reasons to worry
stubbornly I refuse to send mixed messages
~ a smile I might shatter
When I lift my eyes, the sky offers no stars,
only missiles parading with arrogance.
Before me, mountains of corpses rise,
my pupils dilated by human savagery.
Humanity has been consuming itself for millennia,
and I bear the guilt of all those cowards
who watch peoples fade away
behind screens, instructing the purveyors of war.
I arrived in this macabre dimension
like so many innocents cut down by bombs.
The Earth groans under the assaults of unbalanced men,
who plunder its entrails,
who sow hatred, death, and chaos
since time immemorial.
The oceans vomit waves of cadavers,
the hurricanes carry the scent of desolation and fear.
Nations crumble beneath the laughter of tyrants,
and children, bare-handed, learn to count
the bodies falling into the mud of oblivion.
I walk amidst these ruins,
listening to the groaning of stones,
a powerless witness to the unchained pride of men.
Crushed hearts weep for their torn roots,
death swallows secrets that no one tells,
and the sky has become nothing but a theater of fire and iron.
In this open-air junkyard,
the sparks of love persist, stubbornly burning,
like a breath even death cannot smother.
EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE, ‘TIS PUMPKIN SPICE!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The leaves haven't even thought about turning,
still stubbornly clinging to summer's green,
but the grocery store screams orange.
You see them, the usual suspects, transformed.
Twinkies, once golden vanilla sponge cakes,
now a suspiciously orange hue,
promising pumpkin spice bliss.
Hostess Cupcakes, frosted swirls of autumnal delight,
their chocolate depths now haunted
by the ghost of gourd.
Oreos, America's favorite cookie,
now betraying their chocolate heart
for a limited-edition fling
with their pumpkin spice centers.
And M&Ms, ah those little,
candy-coated spheres of madness,
each one a tiny, orange lie,
whispering of harvest festivals
and sweater weather.
‘Tis a pumpkin spice apocalypse,
a sugary sweet, nutmeg and cinnamon invasion.
I laugh, a little crazed, a little delighted.
Bring it on, I say,
to the Twinkies, the Hostess cupcakes,
the Oreos, the M&Ms,
let pumpkin spice reign supreme!
Yes, let's be honest,
it's ridiculous, but
I'm totally here for it.
Now, where’s the pumpkin spice Pepto Bismol?!
Upon the shores of Alexandria’s gleam,
A Library rose, ambition’s dream,
Where scrolls amassed like autumn leaves,
And scholars spun what mind achieves.
Muse-haunted halls, papyrus gold,
Ptolemaic hands, ambitions bold,
Zenodotus and Eratosthenes,
Measured Homer, measured seas.
Callimachus penned the Pinakes’ art,
Cataloging wisdom, knowledge’s chart.
Hero taught as numbers demand,
While diacritics shaped the poetic land.
Yet history’s tide began its turn,
With exiles forced and scrolls to burn.
Caesar’s fire, a shadow cast,
Yet stubbornly, the Library lasts.
Through Roman years, the dust grew deep,
Support grew thin, the scholars weep.
War and wrath swept ancient halls,
Until silence claimed the marble walls.
Serapeum’s shadow lingered on,
A haven for minds, though nearly gone.
Swept away by decree and strife,
Lost forever, Alexandria’s life.
So knowledge bloomed and knowledge waned,
In Alexandria, wisdom reigned
Until the world forgot its name,
But I'm here to bring back it's fame.
Those we lost to the night,
Gone before the sunrise,
Summoned by the unseen,
Taken to the beyond.
Those who have lost to time,
Worn down by its passage,
Sometimes sit on the porch, basking in the daylight.
Time stops for them as they journey to the beyond.
Those we have lost to conflict,
The warmonger’s toolbox is filled with devices and schemes.
Conflicting emotions surge within us;
There’s a falling away,
An evil that stubbornly persists.
Those we have lost to brutality,
Carried away by insurgency,
A matter of urgency;
Though some returned,
They were haunted by torturous trauma.
Those we have lost to rebellion,
Who journeyed into the meadow of darkness,
Sailed into the heart of a turbulent sea,
Cloaked by the desert of time.
August 9, 2025.
tiptoeing
through a minefield
f r a u g h t
with combustible opportunities
a groom
jilted at the altar by bride
who'd rather stay
"just friends."
humiliated at his wedding,
still reeling
from devastating heartbreak,
yet he won't throw in the towel.
he's sucked back into
the rabbit hole of presentiment.
family and friends
scratch their heads
in frustration;
they push him
to make a clean break...
" leave this woman, she will hurt you, again!,"
they implore.
s e n s i n g
inevitable trouble
on the horizon,
they preach safety first,
yet, he stubbornly chooses
to flirt
with danger;
so it's back to square one.
he still loves her, deeply,
but does she?
Café tables on terrasse drenched in rain ~
everyone’s indoor as if on hold
waiting impatiently for the sun to come out.
April showers bring may flowers
but we aren't happy to pay the price ~
meanwhile the rain stubbornly won't let up.
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
The salt of my tears have seasoned years
I am not bitter for I see the blessing
By His stripes we are healed
And He had no sin yet I do
Confessing I have been less than
And created confusion in my life
Despite the word being a map
I stubbornly tried to find my own way
Only to fall back into the vastness
Of God’s love and mercy
His ways are not our ways
But His path is a light
I open my eyes to see
I crawl through darkness —
small, scared,
biting at shadows
to keep my life,
to keep my fear away.
I hold my breath,
keep still,
hiding trembling beneath the strike,
trying not to break,
trying not to pour my heart out.
Everyone sees the fight —
the flash of scales,
the flicker of anger —
but no one sees the fear
that claws beneath the surface,
the quiet battle I wage alone.
I am the rain —
falling slow,
holding back the storm inside,
stubbornly holding it in,
though the weight grows heavy.
Sometimes I feel it —
the sky breaking open,
the flood ready to spill free,
but I clutch harder,
trying not to drown in my own tears.
I see that in him —
eyes full of pain,
holding back the storm,
terrified,
yet still trying
to keep the enemy at bay
with silence and stillness.
Maybe I am the same —
holding on too tight,
hiding the cracks,
knowing the end may come soon,
but refusing to let go.
Maybe we are all snakes and rain —
also here to survive the storm —
fragile and fierce,
wounded and wary,
trying to live without breaking.
Perhaps I wouldn't move
if the train came.
Not out of courage,
just curiosity.
What does it feel like?
or just the experience, maybe.
I sit down in the shower sometimes
until the water forgets it's warm
and I forget
I have skin.
In that moment,
and that moment only
I think nothing
but oh, I feel-
I feel everything
like a flood, swirling, raging inside,
beating ferociously on the locked doors.
On the surface?
an ingrained smile,
a shrug,
a practiced "whatever."
I'm not good at
being good.
Not when good means
loud, bright, easy.
Sometimes I scream
like my ribs are splitting,
but my voice, my throat-
remain stubbornly silent.
I wish one day,
you would knock,
and no one would answer-
No one would come to the door.
Because perhaps I'd have reached where I've always wanted to be,
or perhaps I'm just not there anymore.
draconian dad
stubbornly immovable
until grandbaby
grandbaby request
cant be denied by papa
amazed baby dad
Songs of our land,
Songs of our fathers,
Sung when our fathers won their battles,
Sung when they crossed mysterious rivers,
Sung when they arrived home.
Songs of our land,
Songs of our mothers,
Sung when they awaited our fathers,
Sung when they chased away malevolent spirits,
Sung to welcome our fathers from the battlefield.
Songs of our land,
Sung by the children,
Sung when they held the swords of their fathers,
Sung as they stubbornly pressed onward,
Sung went into tears for only a few returned,
Sung when they were received with sorrow.
Songs of our land,
Sung by the sages,
Sung when they foretold the impending storm,
Sung when they saw through the night.
Songs of our land,
Sung to mourn the dead,
Sung to honour the fallen warriors,
Sung when the Iroko tree fell,
Sung when those it sheltered stood in bitterness of soul.
March 3, 2025.
I buried the past, yet flowers still rise from the soil of forgotten memories,
Roots tangled in dreams and longings that stubbornly refuse to die,
The earth retains traces of pain, transforming suffering into petals of grace,
Even shadows need light to dance at the edge of silent brilliance.
A silent reminder—not everything that disappears is lost, not everything that haunts comes to harm,
I step forward, but echoes follow me like footprints left in the sands of time past,
Proof that I was there, that I lived and felt, that I still am, still remain,
In a world where past and present weave an eternal dance, a song of what once was.
I wish to forget, but flowers grow, living memories that bloom in the soil of my heart,
Roots stretching, binding me to moments that refuse to be forgotten, refuse to fade,
Each step forward is accompanied by the shadows of footsteps left on paths of old,
A dance between what I was and what I am, between light and darkness, between yesterday and today.
Oh Love! Throb and thrill of my life
Why you desert me in my strife?
Why stay far, giving no delight?
Don't fade like a symphony sweet.
Won’t you come near and ease my pain
Can’t you see me in sorrows lain?
Be with me as my guiding sprite
Don't fade like a symphony sweet.
Help me set goals when I am dull
Hold hand when I'm about to fall
Infuse strength when I face defeat
Don't fade like a symphony sweet.
Make me happy when I’m in gloom
From silence, what should I assume?
Please don't be stubbornly quiet.
Don't fade like a symphony sweet.
There was a time when we were young that my life was broken and shattered into a thousand pieces. Each fragment was scattered about the universe and many of the pieces were hidden in the darkest places where humanity could not survive. Yet, you stubbornly sifted through the emptiness and filth of the world to gather all those pieces. With kindness, compassion and love, you carefully examined each one. You traced each of their jagged edges with your soft fingers until you knew where it belonged. With caring you guided them back into their place. Until I was whole.
Nothing’s so busted
it can’t be put together
with patience and love
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