Six candles on your birthday cake
We have many more wishes to make
On this day, let there be endless fun
With days of fairy tales creeping in
Toddler to preschooler to schoolgirl
Let the year ahead be more joyful
You are moving ahead with time
I won't get a chance to go back in time
But I swear, to put my greeting in rhyme
I am sure, now you can read and write
Cheer with rainbow colours so bright
From scratches to sketches, you moved on
To draw the figures of your choice
Oh! Saanvi, it is gala time for us to rejoice.
We read fairytales to find our prince.
We listen to music to find our soul.
We post to social media to be seen.
But why, when we're alone, do we stare at the stars?
From afar, mere specks of light fighting to shine against the abyss surrounding them. But up close? Beautiful and dangerous. Too close, and you burn away.
Is that why we distance ourselves? Why we keep our heads buried in the books we envy? Because why do characters get to have what we can never find? Why does Cinderella get to find her prince, and Rapunzel get to let down her hair, while I'm still stuck in the tower, scrubbing away the mess others made of me?
The beginning always on repeat. Stop and rewind. Never seeing the end credits of “Happily Ever After.”
No. Never.
The children gathered around
the crackling fireplace as
Rumple Stein opened his
heavy, leather- bound book.
His voice dropped to a low,
raspy whisper that made the
shadows on the wall seem to
stretch and dance.
"Deep within the Whispering
Woods," he began, "the old
witches brew potions made
of forgotten nightmares."
He leaned forward, his eyes
gleaming in the firelight as
the wind howled outside the
window.
"They command slimy green
goblins that creep into
bedrooms to steal the
laughter of sleeping boys
and girls."
A floorboard creaked in the
hallway, making the children
jump and clutch their
blankets tight.
"But the worst myth of all,"
Rumple Stein hissed, "is the
faceless monster that hides
right under your bed."
He pointed a long, crooked
finger at the youngest boy,
whose eyes were wide with
fright.
"It waits until the room goes
completely black, listening to
the sound of your heartbeat."
With a sudden, loud SLAM of
his book, he smiled and
whispered, "Now, blow out
the candle and go to sleep."
Oh, tales of darkened spirits,
Memories of special loves
Pass me by and free my soul,
Purge my pain from me.
Thou with thy pleasure and dreams of delight
Hast thy reasons forgotten themselves?
Hast thy shadows darkened thy own soul
And taken to mark and score
The clean days yet to appear?
Poem first published in Withering Words Magazine, 2026, all rights reserved
wind whispers through pines
carrying tales of the land~
clouds drift to the west.
lizzie was the lizard queen,
With sons charles and
andrew, all scaled the depths
of true horror scenes.'
Grandfather the second, time
Birthing is passive for us males
Now from reason to rhyme
To regale mates with proud tales
To the backburner, aches and pains
Proudly ,in awe the spirit soars
As the earth is pounded with rains
Blessings emerge from her pores
I have a casket that tells tales of war
Letters wrote by my late father-in-law
That he sent home to his wife and young son
Those he had missed since the horrors begun.
He was a poet, a pastime we shared
I put his poems into a book, him unaware
It was a gift for his birthday, ninety three
He opened it, loved it, deeply moved was he.
He said it was his best present ever
Those words are etched on my heart forever
It was a pleasure to do and to gift
The time it took was truly worth it.
Now I hold the book since he sadly passed
A treasure of remembrance of the past
An insight into a soldier’s thoughts
When he was living through conflicts of war.
All the butterflies and bees
(and other creatures such as these,
as would be opposed
to beetles, ants, and those)
like a flower up their nose.
Busy ants filed through the office door.
They didn't question what their job was for.
They didn't ask, "What does it mean?"
All they did was to feed the queen.
But one day, one said, "Let's have fun".
They broke for baseball. He hit a home run.
I asked the forlorn fellow on my rug,
"What's wrong?" He answered with a shrug,
"Of all the creatures in tarnation,
why would it be my lowly station
to be a doodlebug?"
On morning's rise
A knight did ride
Into our side of town.
With his radiant stride,
And pearl armor which shined,
Our gaze was his golden crown.
He graced us with death-defying tales.
Of dark chasms he nearly fell.
And spoke of caves and coves,
The which, night's fiends surely hailed.
And in the midst of his vivid ballads,
He asked for some silver.
For his steed had suffered blindness
"From brutal war," he addressed
To any who'd lend their ear.
"Of course," we cried!
"Anything for a hero of mine!"
We gave him half our coin.
But it was only after he glided
Through noon's set did I realize:
That when he turned to wink goodbye
His horse had two full eyes.
Snowflakes dance on mountain peaks,
Laughter echoes as the cold wind speaks.
We trace our steps on frosted trails,
Warm scarves and mittens, rosy faces pale.
By the fireplace, stories unwind,
Hot cocoa shared, our hearts aligned.
Through streets adorned with twinkling light,
Family together, hearts burning bright.
From city streets to quiet streams,
We chase the magic of winter dreams.
In Georgia’s arms, the season gleams,
A memory wrapped in snowy beams.
My uncle the world traveler.
Wise and eccentric as he may be.
Always a story to tell.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
The eyes
The truth they behold
The eyes never lie
Despite what mouths told
Although with weather comes grit
The eyes can turn cold
But you’ll know what to look for
The art is untold
The portals to our souls
Are also beheld
Within our eyes
That often lie so well
Believe none of which you hear
Half of what you see
Couldn’t tell you how many times
My eyes lied to me
1.
Blown to pieces
It ended
Hook, line, and entrails
The blowfish
Puffed harder out
Than it should have.
2.
Cone stared back
At red squirrel
They chased each other
‘round the fir.
Not that it matters much:
The squirrel
Always wins.
3.
No one hears
The rubber scream of worms
Quite lengthy and horrid
One may add,
When robin slurps
Morning mud.
4.
Trailing behind
Bird
Was snake
And right behind them
An old man
With a poem.
5.
Subtle she was not
An old eyeless racoon
A stump left for a paw.
Her saggy skin and rattling bones
Sweeping the forest floor.
I’d be mad at the world
If you suddenly decided to write your story with a rope
Tied to a ceiling
Or a razor
Glided against your pulse
No one goes out without a story
And your story wasn't perfect
No one's is
But you couldn't write some things in your story
And in your story someone else altered it
To hurt you
So
Some pages are torn and wrinkled
I don't think you can mend all the pages
You can't fully straighten a crumpled paper ball
But you can smooth it out
And try as best as you can to fix it
There will always be scars
Trust me
But scars are healed wounds
And you can alter the future of your story
Always
And scars can fade over time
Or till they leave a tiny mark
Therefore
If your story got too long
And too dark
I wouldn't remember how you went out
Because I'd be too angry at the world
But I'd remember your mark.
-D.B
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