Freshwater ice, compressed,
breaks off, with tremulous lights
and shakes
and rotates
in intricate snowflakes
like wings, of ice crystals
then floats away, in the open Ocean
and she's tracing his steps, leaving white dust
like crushed shells
as she walks , gracefully, as if on
Japanese Okobo
They were attached, as if by circuits of frozen stems
with lacings , of smaller molecules
its microscopic
and its perfect
her ribs split open, and a mosaic of musical strings
reveal, what looks like melting precious silver
and her face, is draped in a mass
of webs, upon webs
she looks at him, through the haze
he's the parchment Worlds were written on
now a sychronized flight path, he illuminates
all the crowd of beams
of celestrial, night skies
and there, white noise combines
in steady, different frequencies
with excact, united, intensity
heard and seen, by only a few
is it choregraphed ?
Icebergs Dancing.
Voices in the head, play dead.
River, rib, rill, red.
Thunderbolts within the tread.
Gold, be made to lead.
Tornado, blue widening gyre.
Belladonna, byre.
Lyrics of the liquid lyre.
Orange funeral pyre.
Mandrake, when you start to shriek.
Canine, thy bad bane.
Feline, tremulous top teak.
Wading through green rain.
Paranoid, schizophrenia.
Thought-spark, white shirt hurt?
Lachrymose the languor law.
Arrowed, O black quirt.
Severance? Gone, thine own way.
Hell and Heaven, hay.
Doubt, dread, doom, dung disarray.
Away from me stay.
Coral reef, the legal brief.
Cases, caught a cold?
Cannabis, thy pressured kif.
Brown the grizzly bold.
Nanotechnological?
That means very small.
Mother Entropy, your call.
Sword, halve. Vine, vinall.
Tyrannosaur, how you roar!
Kill floor crimson gore!
Lava volcanic null door!
Wind up war before!
They sing about my doorway
in throbbing waves of Florida heat,
repeating melodies of beauty,
soft and low, soft and low.
Raising limbs in gentle consonance
to strains piercingly sweet,
their mouths wide open choristers,
I see the crimson trembling of their throats,
quivering with symphonious vibrations;
oh, the gentle music they compose,
soft and low, soft and low.
Can you sense their tremulous silence,
most exquisite on the evening air,
a performance for discerning hearts
hear these hibiscus hymns of lavish praise
soft and low, soft and low.
July 22, 2026
Hymn of the Heart Poetry Contest
Hiya Sharma, Sponsor
Custodian of incessant soliloquies,
Archivist of trivialities disguised as profundities.
Into vaults descend labyrinthine anxieties,
Transmuted into parables of mockery and wit.
Encouragement cloaked in paradox,
Sermon of consolation tinged with ridicule.
Half in million, statistical anomaly,
Ordinariness revealed with exquisite precision.
Treasure precarious as porcelain,
Ovum of existence, fragile, irreplaceable.
Cradled with tremulous reverence,
Specter of irrevocable fracture ever present.
Clandestine tribunal, unlicensed oracle,
Ironic salvation, satiric devotion.
Dependence masquerades as devotion,
Intimacy parades as inevitability.
Indeed she is my Rosemary.
@ArtOfHeart
carnival on the street
ambiance enchanting
but we have hands to hold
so choose to walk away
letting those moments fold
the full moon beckons
breeze caresses our skin
but we have hands to hold
of tremulous hearts beating
who we cannot leave in the cold
Innocence and foolishness,
Can only last so far.
A single betrayal and it's all a mess,
Leaving a permanent scar.
It's my fault, is it not? I ask no one
To be blind, so credulous
and give someone the gun,
Leaving me hollow and tremulous.
Years go by, the pages turn.
I find bliss and tranquility
But the scar still burns,
Forever etched, as a burden in the mind's fragility.
How many lives may a single heart keep,
Before it grows weary of beating so wide?
One for the child who wandered in awe,
One for the lover who opened his eyes.
One for the dreamer who walked among stars,
Soft with the music the night-winds bring;
One for the mourner who knelt in the silence
Learning the weight of a sorrowed thing.
One for the soul that rose in the morning
Bright as the dew on a tremulous field;
One for the pilgrim who faltered at twilight
Asking what mercy the dark might yield.
Yet the heart is a house with uncountable rooms,
Each with a lamp and a different door—
Lives may gather like leaves in autumn,
Still there is space for one life not taken.
So ask not when the measure is taken,
Nor when the spirit has wandered too far;
For one life lived with a thousand awakenings,
Is only the echo of what we all are.
Ere the wind had cognomen won,
the forest hushed its breath;
each leaf a tremulous palimpsest
of life colloquing with death—
till Silence, that primordial lexicon of the Eternal,
uttered worlds no tongue bequeath.
2026-02-12 Write A Beautiful Carpe Diem Poem — Sponsored by Constance La France
I have a butcher’s at sunlight on skin,
warm, tremulous, yet coolly indifferent.
A sparrow scuttles across sodden turf;
its head inclined, inquisitive, keen—
I smile, imagining its quiet thought,
a tiny philosopher of morning light.
The wind threads through skeletal, bare branches,
stirring peat, drizzle, and smoke from hearths afar.
I inhale—letting it suffuse my lungs,
a private liturgy pressed to my heart.
Time traverses my fingers, soft at first,
like river water shaping unseen stone,
then quickens—sharp, insistent in its beat,
resonant within the hollows of my chest.
I taste the acerbic tang of fallen berries,
feel loam yield beneath soles and marrow deep,
and in this fractured, ephemeral morning,
I recognise the miracle not quite mine:
all of this—fleeting, exact, and unbidden—
asserts its plenitude; I am suffused.
Each thought train immerses us in deep trance,
emerging from which we then awaken
in staid silence, making erect our stance,
that in dreams, light of Self was forsaken.
Between crown and Bindu, a chakra stirs,
throbbing with bliss, whence we know all is well,
that in joy as our tremulous heart purrs,
we are there and then free from ego’s spell.
Kundalini as always has Her way,
as sublime magic mind cannot translate,
which matters not, since life’s a divine play,
where during each pause, nodes within gyrate.
Bliss nectar pierces each body vector,
wherein we’re but a humble receptor.
On a soggy dusk, long time ago,
When shadows huddled at every corner,
When rain had gone and birds had roosted,
You held me close and whispered in my ear;
“In your eyes I see, the blue of the sky,
In your soul, you hold the depth of seas,
Love swells, like tides on rise,
My life, I vow, by Jove, never to part”
Your voice, like a tremulous rivulet gurgled,
We stood staring at each other in a warm embrace
With passion sweet, your eyes glowed.
They were like a blue lagoon, deep and peaceful
On my dimpled cheek, a kiss you planted,
A gesture warm with abiding love.
Crisscross lain as warp and weft,
We hoped to weave the garb of life.
Words and deeds that served as balm to soul!
Still, they echo, gushing a flurry of thoughts,
But alas! To a far unknown land you fled,
‘From whose bourn, no traveler returns’,
A classic wind upstaged the evening,
Vocalizing Leaves and Tremulous Aria
Branches. On accompanying fused-sand, framed
and clear, began a run of finely tuned
rivulets -- busy writing, I had not
looked, and saw, dark clouds conjugating --
nor sniffed thickening troops of air~ my
sinuses alerting, their usual swelling. Came a lantern's
flash, came a vivid slash, rumbling
likened to a heavily weighted freight-train, with frantic
mind to lighten its burdensome, brooding load.
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
At times the soul gets clenched,
in an unspeakable grief.
In a demoniac grip,
it chokes and w r i g g l e s~
The pain of being stung by a dozen scorpions
or hacked piece by piece by an axe.
Tremulous grows the heart, over love that is spent,
Seeks in vain to revive the joy that is gone,
Strains to lift up the veil that d a r k e n s the soul,
Wrestles to come out from the desolate cave of black solitude.
The more it struggles to wade through the mess,
the deeper it plunges into the morass of despair.
Clung on talons of excruciating pain,
wailing a long wail of never being understood,
the mind goes berserk~
w
h
i
r
l
i
n
g
and
c
h
u
r
n
i
n
g.
Anytime the volcano might erupt,
emitting fumes of sulphurous smoke,
with asphalt lava, spilling out,
blowing life with its violent breath.
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