Like a dragon yawning, began today's dawning.
Eastern sky teased with hints of a pink morning.
Bursting, it covered East, North and South,
spewing clouds of candy cotton from heaven's mouth.
The sky was writhing to a beautiful sonata, billowing over roofs and tree tops in an extravaganza.
The West remained gray, excluded from excitement:
poised, silent, stoic and devoid of involvement,
except for the start of a rare solid pink rainbow
arching high into the sky, stopping before the glow
of nights taunting stars could grasp it away.
As quick as it came it was gone. Sky again was gray.
The day was not yet over and done.
Pink still had plans for more exhibits to come.
As the sun retreated for another evening of rest,
gray sky scattered and splattered the West.
Slender herring bone clouds assembled in an array.
Pink reappeared, tinting those clouds on display.
Then, tucking Sun into bed for the night,
climbed in beside him, and turned off the light.
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.
The silver moon begins to
softly gleam,
To guide you safely to a
gentle dream.
The stars are tucking in the
quiet skies,
As heavy tired eyes close your
sleepy eyes.
Goodnight, sweet dreams,
until the morning sun.
1 cup of sprite
1/2 cup of almond liqueur
2 c sugar
1/2 teaspoon of salt
1 teaspoon of cinnamon
1 cup of almonds
1 tablespoon almond extract
4 cups of sliced strawberries
bring to a simmer form a syrup set aside
pie dough or sugar cookies rolled into disc
add 1 strawberry
1 dollop of cream cheese
sprinkle on some almonds
fold into a ball tucking the corners
add to strawberries seams faced down.
simmer to done
or remove and add to a steamy colander and boiling pot of water
serve with strawberry mixture
and icecream. and white choicalate shavings
Soft and fragile, the black petals lay.
A hand plucked it, tucking sorrow in its pocket.
A venomous sting struck the chest;
desperate, agonized, the body convulsed.
Shallow breaths lingered—
pain devoured the blood of the soul.
Prickings gnawed at flesh;
a scream rose for release, alone.
The rose mocked the trembling frame,
whispering: “Pass me on.”
Its constraints laid bare,
it warned of bleeding more petals
for the next to bear.
The offered chance was welcomed,
unaware of the treachery it held.
Since then, the hurt loops endlessly,
leaving a black, glimmering petal
upon each bosom.
The cursed rose still hunts a worthy hand;
humans pass it on,
wrapped in bruises and despair.
Everyone bears a petal now—
while one shoulders
the ever-growing curse.
And the black rose waits…
for the final heart to shatter.
A heart that breaks in silence wears the brightest, widest smile,
She walks a thousand lonely steps to go the extra mile.
A pillar made of glass and grace, she holds the world upright,
While tucking all her own dark storms away from public sight.
She mends the wings of others though she cannot even fly,
And catches every falling tear with no one asking why.
They rest within her steady hand and take what she can give,
They love the strength she offers them, but not the life she lives.
For though she acts the mountain, she is crumbling from the strain,
A masterpiece of hidden cracks, a soft and silent rain.
Hush now—
let the generators hum.
Let the sodium lights
sing their electric hymn.
Gravel settles into itself.
Steel cools.
Boots rest by doors like obedient animals.
The moon drapes silver
across the fence line
as if tucking in a child
too tired to dream.
Sleep comes cautiously here,
through thin walls
and thinner patience.
But somewhere in the wiring
of night,
a softer frequency plays—
A lullaby
for men who build
what they may never live inside.
My body hates you
Holding me near enough to your heartbeat
Tucking my hair behind my ear so I can hear your broken voice talk me through the war of your battlefield
Through unmercifully intimate actions you drew me in
Until you decided it was your turn to be cruel, like everyone had been to you
Before so forgirveful as grace followed you
Now written with dirty scars and the ongoing pain of the broken promises behind your eyes
With each stolen glance, follows a gulp of guilt.
Years of regret are to come, both of us know.
At least one of us fought.
My body hates you.
No longer repulsed by your lack of love or care
But instead purely emptied as you walk by
I forget myself sometimes, when I feel my arms reach for you
Hoping you’d catch them once more, carry me away from all the troubles that would soon catch up to us
It’s a longing feeling.
My body hates you but my arms forget
While you sleep,
we are the tide coming in to smooth the sand,
leaving the beach perfect for morning.
We are like birds building nests in the dark
gathering, arranging, making ready what you'll need at dawn.
The janitor's mop is a paintbrush erasing the day's scuffs, stroke by stroke.
The baker's hands fold dough like sheets on an empty bed,
tucking in tomorrow's warmth.
The nurse holds vigil like a candle that burns all night so others can rest.
You wake to a table already set,
a fire already lit, a path already cleared
not knowing we walked it first in darkness,
our footprints disappearing behind us like snow melting at sunrise.
We are the moon's workers,
the dream's stagehands,
the ones who polish stars you'll never see falling.
At dawn, we slip away quiet as fog,
and you inherit morning clean as new paper,
forgetting that someone held the pen all night,
writing your day into being.
You may not remember this exact moment
Nor remember the reason we’re here
The music that was playing
The smiles and laughs of friends near and dear
Or even gently tucking my hair behind my ear
But tonight under the fall night sky
I wont let this moment fall away
Because were here on this ferris wheel
And you are mine, and I am yours
I threw away the negatives
But couldn’t bear to part
With the photos of such happy times
They’re tugging at my heart.
Museum trips and boat rides,
Pulling sleds or on the beach,
Birthday candles glowing on a cake,
Those days all out of reach.
A fire in the fireplace,
The family gathered ‘round,
Performances at camp and school,
The beaming faces found.
All dressed up for the holidays
Or set for trick or treat,
The younger version of ourselves
We wish that we could meet.
I loved the reminiscing
But when tucking them away,
It made me sad that they’ll be tossed
On a not too distant day.
Blanket of fog; the Earth its bed.
Tucking it in, to rest its head.
Eerily, it shrouds the land.
Mysteries lurking beyond.
Covering the ground with dew;
Mothers' flowing bows.
* 'Make it Two, Please' Poetry Contest
* Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
* Entered: 10/7/2025
I thought to measure love...
Then thought, what heart
puts a limit on the heart?
Does a mother tell a child
not after breakfast
only till noon
after tucking, on you own?
darling I love you
after sex, no hugging
I thought to measure love
then thought
Love, need never to be thought
Love, need not ever be sought
Just Love....
Collated papers filed and the bills paid
as the kettle whistled invitingly.
My son’s laughter drifting in through the window—
I have forgotten to close the billowing drapes.
A sempiteral tableau.
An ephemeral scene crowds in:
The loud curtains tucking at my memory;
my son’s voice trapped in distress.
The kettle whimpered as it boiled dry—
old papers flutter in my periphery …
Out here,
where time forgets its name
and distance wears no shoes,
a single atom dreams
of being seen.
A nebula breathes in slow creation—
a phosphorous wound
stitched by light,
spilling stars like secrets
never meant for mouths.
What lilt remains in the voice of the void?
Even silence has shape here—
serpentine,
a slither of ancient radiation
wrapping the bones of galaxies,
like a mother tucking in
what she cannot keep.
We call it space,
but it’s more:
a cascade of almosts,
of might-have-beens and never-weres,
falling endlessly
through a gravity
that remembers everything
but forgives nothing.
The lunar dust knows—
how soft it is to vanish,
how even your footprints
can outlive your breath.
And Earth, blue with burden,
floats like a question
we’ve stopped trying to answer—
spinning myths into maths,
naming fire with numbers,
hoping to out-code
the ache.
There is a myriad of ways to be alone.
But here,
in this tender, terrible expanse,
we are together
in our unknowing.
And maybe that
is enough
to make us stars.
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