Hawaii here I come
not for a day or a week but
for three whole months
I want to really get
to experience the island
meet your friendly people
climb each volcano
try on a grass skirt
dance at your luaus
run along your beaches
snorkle and see your reefs
listen to the whales swim by
No intentions of leaving until I have learned
the smell of each Hawaiian flower
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on January 4, 2026 for contest DREAM DESTINATION sponsored by SOTTO POET - RANKED 2ND
WINTER is...
Wearing woolly jumpers,
Inside days,
Nose-tip dripping,
Table games,
Early off to bed,
Reading books.
WINTER is...
Wiggling toes warming up
In my room as the heater blows.
Noses are nippy out in the cold.
Try on the boots: “Too small!” “Too old!”
Eating a pie with lots of sauce... and then...
Running off with a soccer ball.
Oh, can you hear that jingle
You can tell it by its smell
Your skin begins to tingle
And you feel like you're in hell
The "Benjamins" just bit you
Got that look of dull surprise
Your shopping list won't fit you
Cuz, everything fits your eyes
When passing by the store
All those bells begin to ring
Then you're thru the open door
And you'll try on anything
It's time for all consumers
To say hello to Barter
Put down those ugly bloomers
Might make you look much smarter
Oh, can't you hear him holler
He's a devil in disguise
But, what good is that dollar
When there's pennies on your eyes
It's goodbye to "Uncle Bens"
I can't say that I'll miss you
I just pray this madness ends
But, most just can't resist you
Blue,
like a whisper behind glass,
keeps its secrets folded in saltwater.
It doesn’t shout—
just lingers
in the air between questions.
There are days
when blue stretches its long limbs
across the sky,
lazy and endless,
a sigh from a god who forgot
what he meant to say.
It lives in the eyes
of strangers you almost loved,
and in the silence
after good music ends.
Blue is memory’s favorite color,
smeared across the backs
of photographs and promises.
It has weight—
the kind you carry in your chest
but can’t name
in ounces or regrets.
It clings to the ribs
like a hymn
you only hum.
Some nights,
blue walks the shoreline alone,
watching the moon try on
all her silver dresses,
never satisfied.
It is the pause
before “I miss you,”
and the space
between waves.
Blue
never needs permission to stay.
There are more nos than yeses
when my wife goes to Talbots to try on new dresses.
Each dress has to fit her just so
that only her best features show.
And the rest she leaves up to wild-ass guesses.
I’ve no one to talk to and it’s bringing me down
Can’t be myself so I try on someone else
But the outfit never seems to fit
Too tight
Too suffocating
And I can’t breathe
Makes my waist look small and my chest look big
It's what everyone else wears
And I'm told to fit in
I hate it but- no one cares
We look so alive but we are all dead inside
The pain is irrelevant
The suffering is a consequence
We cast no eyes to everyone else
And only a blind eye to ourselves
When I die I hope for my ancestors to read this
But I know
That they won’t care either
Can a song be so sad it becomes beautiful?
A record listened to with such incessance
Its needle scratches and wobbles
Becomes desperate new notes for the melody?
The song unrecognizable to the listener
Without its own personalized warp
From a thousand roundabout journeys?
Try
Hurrah For The Riff Raff’s Good Time Blues (An Outlaw’s Lament)
Or their Ogallala
Try on Steve Earle’s Last Words
Or St. Vincent’s Smoking Section
All these songs make me turn my head
And cry
When I’m around others
Otherwise if I’m all alone
I stare ahead in stoned silence
No Expectations is another
Mick and Keith say that day in the studio
Was the last time
They ever saw blurry-eyed original Brian Jones
Alive
Bent over his guitar with his steel finger slide
Finding and gliding his long long regrets
Up and down his bent strings
As the boy watched his peace of mind packed up
For the last time
Adding his own final warped words
From a piece of steel to carved hollow wood
His swan song for the Stones
That Keith and Mick thought they wrote
Made his own
Immortal
And beautiful.
Sometimes, just a small spark of empathy
Can brighten up another’s mind to see
The value of love and understanding
To lift the weight of negativity
For darker thoughts and doubts debilitate
And obstruct the path that leads us to heal...
We must shine our love to illuminate
The path that love and compassion reveal!
Don’t ignore those in spiritual need
Because the deepest of our wounds don’t bleed
They thrive wherein silence is the weapon
That amputates hope the soul sorely needs
A smile looks nice, but try on compassion
It’s transformative attire for the heart...
For suffering without understanding
Strips a soul bare while it tears love apart.
For every glow of your shine, there will always be others who try to extinguish your flame than to learn how to glow on their own.
Considering all resources that they spent trying to extinguish your fire, they would have shone already if they only chose to try on their own.
Try on for trying.
Cry on for crying.
Die on for dying.
Fear not to fear.
Hunger’s deep burning.
Awake but still yearning.
Stones left o’re turning.
Hold to what’s dear.
Like the dew falling.
Faint whisper calling.
From the ground crawling.
Be still to hear.
Songs sung of ages,
break forth from cages.
Pages on pages.
All becomes clear.
Stand tall for standing.
All things demanding.
Grasp understanding.
Dawn’s light is near.
Branches once traded,
come home elated.
What was awaited…
soon will appear.
We put things in the fridge,
To keep them very cold,
But some things in our fridge,
Are getting very old.
Like dear Uncle Ted,
By the loaf of bread,
He’s been there,
Since he last went to bed.
And cousin Ebenezer,
In the freezer,
He’s sadly missed,
The jolly old geezer.
And of Aunty Ann,
There’s hardly a trace,
A roasting pan’s,
A right resting place.
And if you think,
Sally was nice,
Have another serving,
Of this fine meat slice.
And as for the cat,
Don’t worry about that,
Just try on,
This funny furry hat.
My suit of self-loathing no longer fits
The mirror of compassion tells me so
Years of bad-intentions held back growth
After a time, the length of my sleeves bind
I didn’t realize I’ve become over-sized
These angry pants are fit for a small child
How silly I look with cuffs choking wrists
How I’ve loved my painfully straight jacket
Like it or not, the right suit still waits
No one other than I can disrobe loathing
The best cloak is the one from the womb
It takes skill to unstitch a childish blazer
It takes care to unhem pants outgrown
It takes love to go out in my birthday suit
Let tatters of anxiety fall down the chute
Self-loathing keeps me from disrobing
But, I’m not ready to shed my suit yet
The manly scissors that cuts are too heavy
After self-loathing is bare understanding
Forgive the man unstitching childishness
Let go of short-comings without clinging
Take the macho suit off the rack with care
Try on that fitted suit made for just me
Wear it till love fills the over-sized space
Take it all off till nakedness feels nice
Matthew 24:18
"Whoever is in the field must not turn back to get his cloak."
' Twas entangled in marshmallows.
Trying to make rice Krispie's.
That could share with goodfellows.
Maybe should have tried Swiss cheese.
A system tried to develop.
Waxed paper didn't untangle.
Many emotions did swell up.
Hand, mouth, tongue 'twas entangled
3rd try on this Ae Freislighe poetry form
How many hats does she wear in all? I asked.
The leopard rolled over, his body happily sun-basked.
Did you count the hats? I asked the tiger lily.
She giggled at me, making me feel a tiny bit silly.
How many hats in all? I asked the python.
He said don’t really know, but let’s try on one.
So, saying, he flipped one upside down on his head.
I got away fast, for he looked like he had not recently been fed.
Joanne’s first husband treated her like a queen.
He was handy with a toolbox, and built her a fabulous salon.
I was in high school when she asked for a Cinderella stairway.
So the girls who were trying on gowns could walk down the stairs.
Making a Cinderella entrance, showing off for the old ladies.
The gowns she sold reeked of sequins, feathers, lace, pearls.
I remember how excited she was when he finished the stairway.
All of the seventeen and eighteen year old girls in town ran to see it.
We had to try on dresses and walk down those stairs many Saturdays.
Joanne was lured away from her husband by a snake of a guy.
None of us knew what he had but he whisked her off.
She divorced the carpenter, and married the narcissist.
He tried to keep her to himself, but couldn’t.
She finally disappeared; never to be seen again.
We all figured it was his way of keeping her to himself.
Her son was fifteen at the time, and was locked out of the house.
“I never liked that kid!” the narcissist was heard to say.
We all wished she had stayed with the carpenter.
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