Our community has become diluted.
Where there was once connection?
The remains are septic and disheveled.
It’s sad to see this behavior in action,
witness emptiness eclipsing synergy.
We all lose when we feed distraction.
Multiple pens feed a seed for artistry,
people show up but remain divided.
I don’t see how this will inspire poetry.
Thank you for the platform provided,
regardless of a mission so misguided.
With blurred vision in my one eye,
on this cold winter afternoon
I trace the course of a blue-black fly
in my small kitchen. Pretty soon
my boredom gets the best of me.
Once I eat a macaroon
I rise to make some jasmine tea
and wonder why I allow this bug
(who does not share my philosophy)
to sit there resting on my mug.
I do not know what's in his head,
but think he must be awfully smug,
so I get up and leave. Instead
of drinking tea I go to bed.
You abused the rare title of confidant,
viewing vulnerability as nothing special.
Now I’m in control of the editing of want.
Armed to the teeth and ready to wrestle,
I’m recanting each display of affection.
My discipline has reached a new level.
Toxic dynamics now require intervention,
your frostbitten words have no meaning.
It’s time to rewrite the contract extension.
Never again will I get caught pleading
remember that, take your time rereading.
Grow strong but remember your roots,
explore the world yet seek what is still.
Moment to moment find what suits.
When we let go and tumble downhill,
those hard rolls ignite that inner core.
Nurturing soil brings a spiritual refill.
With just one taste left wanting more,
mastering rules bosses stacks wins.
Don’t aim simply to even the score.
Fly a little bit higher lifted by flat-spins,
embrace the past as you shed old skins.
A square building called Gilbert's Cove Lighthouse,
built way back in 1904 high above the water;
it was home to a man, children and spouse.
The cove calm but it could get white-water,
the red beacon guided boats of all shapes;
keepers kept them from the underwater.
Often rain would crash down like thick white drapes,
the children would huddle in real dread;
for 50 years the family enjoyed dreamscapes.
It was a lighthouse- a home white and red,
in time, it fell to decay and boarded up;
a Nova Scotia lighthouse and homestead.
But, a historical group did a huge cleanup,
now, museum and tea room pick-me-up !
Let flames be if you can’t fan them,
what a waste to keep words contained.
Intrigue and sparks walk in tandem.
Blind fervor can’t remain restrained.
With an adept Sun’s touch you soar,
that type of glow will not be feigned.
Too prim for this hurried downpour,
please end fake summer renascence.
You don’t dance when hail hits the floor.
Not thinking of the consequence,
heat won’t fire with benevolence.
Never B Flat
Sometimes B Sharp
Always B Natural
Orpheus and
Apollo and
The guided Muses
Octoecho
Dorian mode
Uneven float note
Thoth inventor
Ihy child
Lord of vibrations
True rhythm is
Jehovah’s biz
Created for us
Led by music
Offbeat, weak beat
Syncopated trope
Is nature's fabric polar, dual, or binary,
or is it only our perception,
so that for each position, there's one contrary,
always without exception?
Are left/right, forward/back, up/down,
nature, itself, or is it our conception?
Is he a serious man or clown
in our language's nomenclature?
Does he live in the country or a town?
When it comes to a human's nature,
each one is either "them" or "us",
and we ask which will command the legislature.
We're creative in our definitions, thus,
nationality, gender, ethnicity or age
decides who rides in the back of the bus.
When one puts a story on a page,
introducing conflict is a must.
Internet users won't engage
unless a headline triggers bloody lust,
causing them to click,
making money, but sowing distrust.
Is the Internet, then, making us more sick -
putting us at odds, one by one,
creating two realities, brick by brick?
Here's a headline I made up for fun:
"Mean Ol' Martians are invading earth!"
Now, do you think earthlings can live as one?
involuntary spasms of delight manifest
on our head we wear a crown of bliss
touched thus by spirit we feel blest
reality for us is the here now this
our presence an epitome of delight
fullness in emptiness, nothing amiss
both imbibing and radiating divine light
we are God’s flame that has no name
nodes within aglow day and night
poised thus in vast void with no aim
bliss enablement is our claim to fame
“Everyone’s different,” says someone born in May
To the another whose birthday’s in June.
“But we all get a “hip hip hooray!”!”
“Every cake’s different,” say tastebuds to a spoon;
A stable table to some disposable plates
As they hear for the first time the table’s same tune.
“Every bite’s different,” say the plates in turn on the table.
“Every different bite’s bitten to a new beat on the first record
That plays when cake song’s sung and cake placement is stable.
The foreground to “the food of love” is to tape record.
The format of birthdays is repeated, results still differing for
Each year’s wish, released like a parachute pack by a ripcord.
"Wisdom doesn't automatically come with old age. Nothing does - except wrinkles. ~ Abigail Van Buren
Hear me, my ardent, eager, bright-eyed youth.
I'm flattered that you would lend me an ear,
though you are imaginary, in truth,
and I am quite unqualified, I fear -
to utter words, unquestionably wise.
But I love to speak, and my time is near.
What I didn't know, when I was your size,
is that lives are a mix of joy and pain,
so that everyone, sometimes hurts and cries.
Sometimes, the sun shines, sometimes, it will rain.
So, have faith. There is no need to despair.
The bright sun will always come out again.
Be brave, try hard, be true, be kind and care.
Laugh, have fun, nurture yourself and others,
and you will see the sun more than your share.
Remember, we're all sisters and brothers.
I always wanted most of all to know,
but why this fierce passion I cannot say.
Other children might want to jump or throw,
and while they wished to laugh and run and play,
I read the books written through the ages -
to gain knowledge to keep danger away.
Yes, knowledge is power, said the sages,
but o'er safety and power, there is love,
and abandoning life in the pages,
and driven by a force, seemed from above,
I was drawn to a sweet flower in bloom,
but not showing what I was thinking of,
I tried in vain to possess and consume
by knowing all about her that I could
and so I lost the scent of her perfume.
An irony I wish I understood -
fifty years on, I don't know who I am.
My memory's not working like it should.
In fact, I do not even know my name.
I struggle in confusion and in shame.
A quiet love outlives the turning years,
It bends through storms yet never asks to rest,
It hums beneath the weight of hidden fears.
It learns to lose and still be softly blessed,
A fragile thread that will not tear apart,
Though every night it fails the silent test.
It guards a fire that trembles in the heart,
And stands against the sharpest edge of pain,
Yet yields its breath before it turns to art.
For love can war, but cannot war in vain,
It fights the world with gentle, open hands,
Till one soft word can break it like the rain.
“Stay not,” it hears and all it understands,
Is love can live, but dies when it disbands.
Written: April 29, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
**************
"Quote: True beauty is a ray that springs from the sacred depths of the soul, and illuminates the body, just as life springs from the kernel of a stone and gives colour and scent to a flower. By Rumi"
***************
The springtime voice moves daintily in the air,
A silver sigh like dawnlight through the trees,
That wakes earth from winter's silent prayer.
It lures the buds with dazzling, perplexed breeze,
A mystic murmur, attractive as a rhyme,
that wanders down the meadows, talking to the bees.
Each seed now stirs, as though it recalls time—
a sleeping spark beneath the melting loam,
standing like hope in some forgotten clime
The hills grow warm; wandering winds bring home
The flocks of petals, gentle as falling snow,
Their hues light up every meadow and dome.
O Spirit Spring, whose translucent streams glow,
restore the earth—let every heartbeat grow.
Contest 2026 - 04 - 02 While Beautiful Tarzarma Sponsor Constance La France
A Therianthrope’s Harsh Winter
Snowflakes sunk into my soft fur
I purred as my fur began to puff
the puff wetting my once so soft fur.
I fluttered as my fur began to puff.
During the Nightengale, when its cold,
When my head is filled in the slough
tarnished in scuff making me less bold.
My lips shuddered in the freezing snow,
flakes flowed and i decided to bring my body to a fold
from hind legs to long legs nestled in snow
wallow in the warmth, losing my wool
soft skin leaving me in a soft glow
I run against the snow and its cool
running back to my home and no longer being a fool
drugged winter fighting against the null
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