azure ...
quite sublime …
cloudless, clear and bright
I watched the birds -
the strange, colorful birds
flitting in the sun of
a perfect, pristine morning
taking to the sky in flight -
soaring, drifting, falling ... falling
from heaven, into the
hands of God …
odd they had no feathers - no
wings to press against that
glorious, sparkling September air
but beautiful in their way
in their deadly, dancing descent
until their screams
were close enough to hear
and the sickening
thud of sinew meeting …
pavement.
#neverforget
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art by Richard Drew borrowed copyright-free by the author from public domain files at FreePik / Picasa )
My run begins with a gentle jog along a mountain trail~
my breath is easy, my legs are loose,
and the world opens up ahead.
But when the trail tilts upward,
my lungs begin to burn, my heart starts to thud~
yet something in me refuses to stop.
Some days the trail is smooth,
sunlight dappling the ground
like applause.
Other days it’s mud,
tangled roots,
and the sharp surprise of a stone
I never saw coming.
But I keep running,
because the body remembers
what the mind forgets~
that momentum is its own kind of grace.
Somewhere along the way
I discover running isn't about the number of miles,
my speed, or crossing finish lines~
it's about the miracle of moving forward.
apples loosen from branches
with the soft thud of certainty.
nothing dramatic~
just fruit completing its journey
from skyward reach
to earth’s open palm.
I walk the path
and feel myself ripen too.
my identical twin sister is well-loved in a small town
she has been a nurse to most of the inhabitants
Corydon, Iowa where the average age is 72.
They all ran to her house when she fell off a ladder.
I am not sure what got them there
A scream? A thud? Or inquisitive neighbors looking out windows
But the ambulance pulled up and could barely get through the throng
There are 2800 people in Corydon
Most of them were surrounding my sister
Falling off a ladder in a small town
Different than falling off a ladder anywhere else
Branded eternally by blood,
beauty is no longer fleeting.
So burgundy soft with a thud,
from head to toe left secreting.
I’m a vampire rose, flesh eating;
I’ll always pick a lush dessert.
Your sugar spikes are depleting,
the sweetest nip could never hurt.
Written: June 26, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Joseph May
**************
More bright than brain, the mirror gleams,
yet darkness hides, within its beams;
dazzling light now, adorns the pane —
the mirror gleams, more bright than brain.
Clear heat or blood, with facet glow,
grace adorns pane, dazzling light now —
yet truth reminds, grief hits with thud;
with facet glow, clear heat or blood,
Kaleidoscope scenes — plague the mind,
Grief hits with thud, yet truth reminds
this grim, brooding day, does it mean —
plague the mind — kaleidoscope scenes
From true figure— how mirrors stray,
does it mean — this grim, brooding day;
the silver glass might grant veneer —
how mirrors stray, from a true sphere
Rumple Stein tapped his cane
on the dusty floorboards,
gathering the children in the
mansion's dark parlor.
"Long ago, this very house
belonged to a hunchback
goblin named Quasimodo, "he
whispered, pointing up.
"He had ears like a bat, feet
like a duck, and a crooked
back shaped like a giant
potato."
The grandfather clock
chimed midnight, its heavy
ticks matching the rhythm of
the children's racing hearts.
Quasimodo didn't want to hurt
anyone, Rumple Stein grinned,
he just hated people making loud
noises.
Suddenly, a loud, scraping
THUD- THUD- THUD echoed right
above their heads from the
dark attic stairs.
When the kids don't clean their
rooms, he stalks through the
halls and hides their favorite
toys!
The children gasped, looking
nervously at the dark corners
of the room as the curtains
rustled.
"He is watching right now,
waiting to see who leaves
their shoes on the floor
tonight."
Rumple Stein chuckled softly,
closed his book, and said,
"Now go clean up before
Quasimodo finds you."
The grandfather clock
struck nine as the silver
platters were finally
uncovered.
Instead of the roasted duck,
a severed hand rested on the
bed of rosemary.
Before anyone could
scream, the mansion's
heavy oak doors automatically
locked.
The lights flickered out,
plunging the grand dining
room into pitch blackness.
A wet, heavy thud echoed
as the host collapsed onto
the mahogany table.
When the candles were relit,
a towering figure stood
holding a carving knife.
A porcelain mask reflected
the frantic, tearful faces of
the remaining guests.
One by one, the crimson
wine on the tablecloth was
replaced by a darker red.
Breath was held beneath the
long drapes as heavy boots
approached slowly.
The figure stepped over the
furniture, whispering that
dessert was about to be served.
There’s a certain feeling after I cry.
A cool sensation pooling in my feet, threatening to crawl up my calves, never quite making it
There. A sorta hollow buzz from my knees to my stomach, feeling there but not in the way for once. Arms heavy like fatigue, but so much softer—much kinder—all the way down to the tips of my phalanges, twitching ever so softly. Aware of the thud of life—for once not so thunderous, slowly and steady.
I’d like to call this feeling calm,
I think that’s her name.
O short-snouted slouth
with your quivering stamp-fangs,
you thud-thump my soul with procedural sludge;
the cosmos groans in beige.
By decree of Sub-Section
Twelve-and-a-Half-Point-Nine,
I must submit my shoelaces in quadruplicate,
signed by three witnesses and a mildly confused turnip.
O mighty Desk of Doom,
why must your flobber-forms that
cling to my sanity like damp bureaucratic algae?
The scooter raced past my auto.
My heart skipped a beat.
He hit another scooter beside us —
a heavy thud split the road.
It happened all of a sudden.
For a moment, I could not understand.
I felt sorry for those who were hit.
My auto paused; I felt scared.
I wanted the auto to move.
I did not wish to look at their pain.
Luckily, the auto moved on,
and I felt relief.
Someone would pick them up.
They would gather themselves somehow.
Accidents are easy to read in the news,
but ugly to witness.
O my God,
I was lucky it was not me.
What was their hurry?
They could have slowed down,
could have avoided hitting each other.
I felt better as we moved past.
It would become another story
I would eventually forget.
From the magician’s bag
a small seed spills into the mud
Of little consequence to onlooker bugs
just a soft plop – no splash or thud
Years later a full-grown tree stands there
the fragrance of her peaches filling the air
Ripe, plump and juicy, hanging heavy from each branch
Pick just one, ignite an avalanche…
My heart calls to your heart
Miles apart
and still these strings tug
Unbroken n well connected from your last hug
That warmth, that smell,
That can drag me from the depths of hell,
That need, that desire
That unquenchable internal fire
That has me calling your name
The night will never be the same
Echoes on hills mumble
As the single syllable rumbles..
"Rae"
They hear me say,
Whispering like a well planned plot gone awry,
Tears as a burst open sky,
Showering down washing away body and soul
And still..my resolve holds.
My heart, a lonely thud on this thin wall,
My voice haunting these quiet halls,
My hands reaching into the dark,
hoping you would reach back.
I think it's a sinful pleasure to crave someone this much,
Be driven to madness for want of a touch,
And so I will keep tormenting myself til your face falls on mine,
Til that moment we wrap up in each other and unwind time.
"Dear Dracula, pale and wan,
you lie so peacefully with your coffin lid on.
We've had good times, but this you must believe -
it is time for me to take my leave."
This news, from the lady with no more blood,
landed with an audible thud.
"These words are spiders banging in my head,
shouting loud, 'you're dead, you're dead, you're dead!'
Through my heart, this is a stake.
Could there have been some mistake?"
Positive words float
They lift the fog on a quiet morning
Soft and bright
Warmth with goodness
Easy as sunlight slipping through a window
Without seeking permission
They take no effort to lift
A single syllable…sometimes two
Suddenly the room feels wider
The air feels kinder
The day feels possible
Negative words arrive heavy
They clatter in the mouth
Thick with extra syllables
Dragging shadows with them
Like overpacked suitcases
Say gloomy
It lands with a thud
Say bitter…somber…dreary
Each one pulls at the tongue
An unnecessary labor
An unsuspecting weight to carry
It’s strange isn’t it
How lighter words lift us
Heavier words ask us to lift them
Maybe this is why choosing kind words
Feels like choosing ease
Choosing breath
Choosing ourselves
The part of ourselves wishing to rise
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