first, the sky before my eyes unfurls
a vast, boundless silver canopy,
spreading further along the line of sight,
covering the fields beneath my feet,
and the forested hills that lie beyond.
the land, which had been
as still as a sleeping creature,
is the first to wake, slowly shaking off
the last lingering drowsiness
that accumulated through the night.
right after, amber sunlight breaks through
the clouds, spilling into the expanses of woods,
settling on the calm lake surface,
and spreading over the fields
and grain plots in the mountain hollow.
a pair of hands holds a farm tool steadily,
turning over clods of dark, fertile soil from the field;
every clod brim with the nutrients
that can grow strong, thriving crops.
when sowing seeds, everyone carries...
a steady, earnest wish, gently
tucking the seeds wrapped in hope
into the freshly turned soil.
in the long stretch of days that follow,
someone tends to this field at all times,
devoting wholehearted care to
every single seedling, putting in
full effort working in the fields each day,
watching over the crops’ roots
as they dig into the ear.
movements in space marked by time
is the stage where’s birthed a rhyme
and wherein dream forms shape shift
which heart tends to sieve and sift
desire mirrors aversion
becoming our perversion
but turning inward our glance
makes erect our soul’s stooped stance
when light chose to crystallise
it began to weigh and size
yet cessation holds the key
to be in this instant free
when there be no ownership
no doer then does worship
whence consciousness as pure light
is awash in bliss delight
we’re the light we sought to seek
so plugging energy leak
ego dies and we reclaim
flame of bliss that has no name
( extended sonnet )
o there's a twilight magic midst the mist
it floats between the eventide and dawn
attending winds of fancy, heaven-kissed
that billow with sweet breaths of Avalon
so waiting on a hope 'til gloaming's gone
a sea of suns to cast your dreams upon
o there is an enchantment thru the night
that dances with dark charm and reverie
it holds all yearnings in its bosom, bright
and waits for your desire to set them free
to plumb the inky depths of midnight sea
and loose your sleep's imaginings-to-be
o there are wonders in the evening’s air
thus brought to full fruition in your sleep
all spun to threads of artfulness and care
and woven into wishes, grand and deep
a tapestry of moonbeams meant to keep
the secrets of the twilight in its creep …
and ev’ry soul who tends that great expanse
obliges your sweet dreaming … as they dance.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with Gemini AI / Meta AI software )
I think the language of dating tends to be intentionally overeducated, because modern romance often requires forensic attention to fragments: eye movements, direct response or response delay and strategic silence.
The term ‘boyfriend’ is a deliberate allocation of trust.
Though we kiss for control with charming nonchalance,
it’s gritty and everyday, not decorative companionship.
He’s seen my worst screenshots
On another note..
I love staying up late at morning
I have vampire tendencies
that’s my frequency
Should I start to turn in earlier
or wait for school to begin
I’m that kind of worrier
that’s the way my world spins
.
.
A song for this:
Deny by La Sécurité
Smoke Alarm
The smoke alarm must be defective like an old thermometer
Even though it is neither daily or monthly mor even weekly
It tends to go off when there is neither smoke or fire – does it
have a short wire?
It is so irritating that I feel like throwing it away
As far as it can possibly go without a hurricane
By which it could go to the middle of Maine
Where it can never again annoy me for free
Betrayal and Love
Our prime purpose in this seeming existence is to help others.
if you can't help them, don't hurt them even with a convincing hoax
because the paradox that many want to find in the daily grind is
that if you love until it hurts regardless of perks and any squirts
there can be no hurt until there’s even some unfair betrayal
Betrayal can happen in anywhere in any unexpected form
even on a nature trail especially if you’re empty handed
plus it tends to be both needless and unfair regardless of a bear
resulting in a bad ending
However, what every individual on the planet needs is neither
betrayal for any reason nor loneliness but love in every sense
of the word-it can start with a bottle of water and a compliment
which requires gracious acceptance or an offer of a meal
refusal to accept is not love nor is it anything other than fearful
rejection which even though better than a lethal injection can seem
worse than betrayal and is sometimes much worse than love- lack
of companionship is not right nor do fantasies have remain fantasies
because love is what’s needed!
Softly, starlight slippers through silver leaves,
salving slender branches where willows keep their weeping vigil.
A sighing wind weaves grief’s misty purple veils,
hesitantly floating before sweeping down;
valley tears, fern quivering, blend with those heavy clouds weep.
Moss in variegated green feathers, paves paths primitive,
moonlight lends gray gloved hand to guide faltering feet,
trembling on cliff-sharp edge of blackest night,
stumbling forward, tracking an unmapped grief labyrinth.
Heart of mine, spent by the merciless beat,
lean hard upon hoarded memories, bittersweet.
Life, after such sharp parting, shields her flame,
tended as a mother tends her sleeping dear,
softly repeating through the night one poignant name
that only she who bore the pain can hear
in accents of the heart so sweetly clear,
echoing faint chords from the heavenly sphere.
Perhaps time dulls the sadness, keen,
or drives it deeper to a place unseen.
Copyright, July 1, 2026
INFINITE SELF-ABSORPTION
profound
seriousness
tends
towards
the
indifferent
appearing
to observe
the
remote
impersonal
&
uninterested
yet
resembling
solemnity
crucial
to understanding
to
inform
selfish
devotion
&
sympathetic
understanding
__________________________________
Man reacts to rain in a variety of ways often finding a fault with it. When the season's rain is late in coming, he is no longer choosy and wants it just to rain in what so way. Yet, when it rains enough, he tends to become somewhat hard to please and fussy. However, this ghazal, set in an Anapaest meter, has its own idea what it can be truly called rain.
________________________
What wets all my within I call rain,
What makes her envy green I call rain.
I’ve seen rains cleanse and scour all around,
What makes her a teen queen I call rain.
Rain may make the rivers overflow,
What lets me her heart win I call rain.
Rain may make her all wet from without,
What can make her heart keen, I call rain.
Rain can turn deserts to oasis,
If love seeds sprout therein, I call rain.
_______________________________
Happenings | 05.07.2026 | green, heart, love, rain, Ghazal
Stands in the shoes of the lonely and destitute
Is quietly wise, soft-spoken yet astute
Sows with joy the bounty of wisdom's fruits
Tends to the heart with words that soothe
Embraces that two, in unity, can stand resolute
Reaches across the silence with laughter and truth
Harbours a love that runs deep, flowing profuse
Offers her light without limit or excuse
Overcomes, by the Lamb's power, all cycles of abuse
Drawn closely to His side - forever her chains are loosed
There are people in this world, who turns off their light,
you see it in their eyes, as they walk in their night.
We all have our own darkness, lingering in the heart,
as we do our best each day, not to give it a part.
Those who have no light, their love has turned to stone,
they say the truth will cut you, slice you to the bone.
Where there is no love, evil, tends to be,
the side we walk the most in, is known of you and me.
One or the other, day by day we live,
what we feed our hearts, is what we truly give.
Learning to fight our shadows, as we walk in the light,
keeps us from walking, in the darkness of our night.
From being overtaken, by the evils, that we can be,
because the darkness in this world, is inside of you and me.
Those who see the truth, keep your light burning bright,
lest we be one of those, who turns off their light
The departure is all I know.
Its familiarity is embedded in the sadistic comedy of my consciousness.
Its affection is engraved in the intimate deception of my own searing flesh.
Its practice plays on a loop in the fond erraticism of my haste.
The malice kisses my tears as it spits salt into my sores.
The isolation tends to my methodical mourn of a mockery.
The reassurance of my ruin strokes my hair; a reminder of my rational wreckage.
The impulsive denial of my fate lingers in the darkness of my preordained doom.
The doom of my dread.
The doom of my denial.
The doom of my destiny.
The deliberate descent into the dusk holds me hostage.
The eerie malevolent vines of its malign wrap around my vindictive matter.
It squeezes until I drip with the decay of my own skin-swallowing dejection.
The white of its teeth gleam at me, gasping in my reluctant pleas of sojourn.
The rot fuses with the warmth of my blood and the salt of my sweat.
This is the end I yearned for.
This is the termination I yearned for.
This is the finale I yearned for.
Calculated.
Segregated.
Anticipated.
The doom of my departure.
Generally domestic bliss : Primary need .
Indispensable for a life : Indeed.
Your day to day living must be easy,
always staying strong dynamic, busy.
Each being may not wish for domestic bliss:
Somebody doesn't bother if they can miss.
Demand of life, not same for each person.
It tends to follow separate version.
Domestic bliss may be one's earnest desire
Other prefers 'power' through life entire.
Or, approaching every step on journey,
to gain own goal or after money.
Domestic bliss not always priority -
Happiness lies in other activities.
Yet for domestic bliss hanker most guys :
It's universal truth ! None can deny .
In the heart of the whispering woods,
Where shadows dance with the light,
Lies a Child with a gentle soul,
Keeping vigil through the night.
Her Mother, a Witch of ancient lore,
Sits beneath the Mistress Moon’s empathetic glow,
Weaving spells of forgotten dreams,
In the world where secrets flow.
The child always tends to her mother’s heart,
A well of sorrow, deep and wide
For the father, a phantom of the past
Left before the baby’s first cry
With hands of grace and eyes of truth,
She gathers herbs with care
Brewing potions to ease the pain,
And weave hope from despair.
The forest hums with her magic song
A lullaby in the boughs above,
As the child whispers words of strength,
Bound by unyielding love.
In the flicker of the lanterns glow,
The Mother smiles, though tears may fall,
For in her child, she sees the light,
That guides them through it all.
Thus, the child of the witch remains,
In the woods where mysteries dwell,
A guardian of her Mother’s heart,
Where love and magic swell.
My Morning with Tim 48
Kevin Davis 2024
Each morning I watch Tim, my dog, awaken.
He tends to his needs—water, food, a step outside.
Then he moves about, bumping into chairs,
yet always calm, always cheerful, never shaken.
He searches, finds, then comes for a rub,
my voice calling his name, a treat in my hand.
For a while he stays close, then roams again,
returning to sniff what’s left, as if he truly sees.
He sits, awaiting the brush of my hand,
sniffs the treat at his feet,
then lies down proudly to accept both reward and touch.
Such is our morning routine:
Tim to nap by my feet,
I to sip coffee, switch on my computer,
and let the day begin its gentle climb.
These are our retired days, peaceful and slow,.
“Hey, let’s go out!”
And I reply with a smile, “Okay, where to?
And breakfast? I’ve got toast and coffee on.”
“That sounds good,” she says. “Come in, we’ll decide.”
So, I rise, happily shifting my mood,
ready to step into the day with my bride.
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