Youthful airs come and gone
turning heads for all the wrong reasons
painfully desperate to attract attention
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
A radio draws music from the air,
It is designed to capture sounds within the room.
The screen, with light and motion pictures so rare,
Transmits the drama of life through the bloom.
A mobile phone connects both near and far,
Uniting hearts across the globe with grace.
Yet minds are made to reach beyond the star,
To catch God's dreams from heaven’s resting place.
For this we are formed - His image we reflect,
Co-partners in the dreams that He conceives.
With faith, we dare to walk where none expect,
And live the life that only God believes.
So, dream divine, let sacred visions brim -
Adventure waits for those who walk with Him.
We gaze up at the full harvest moon.
Nightingales are singing our tune
The tunes of my cries goes
Why the breathe, the life?
A question that has creapt its way in and taken root into my very soul
At times a wail but mostly a cry to be freed of it all
Why?
No recollection of a choice but here i breath
So fluid life goes yet i fight the reality of conciousness
A fight of seemingly boudless choices but non exists
Why?
I take consolidation in an inevitable end but when?
Not beyond a childlike wrinkly existence but hoping for less yet clinging on for more
The hypocrisy, the cowardice and double standard is a shame i carry
Why?
One day...could be now, a minute a head or more time than i hoped for, it shall all come to a conclusion
Hopefully soon but not too soon
By Aaron Onen
Natures’ Tune
A path shadowed
with darkened clouds
Even the perky noon
couldn’t reveal its’ paths
Entrapped in a dreaded maze
sealed from the soothing wind
With each distorted step
leading to a saddened end
I mused
staring at the timorous waters
receding away from my feet
Gawking with anxious desire
I watched the twerking wave
quietly caressing the sandy shore
Inspired by Prince Roger Nelson's song : When Doves Cry
Grey clouds hover over my wasteland,
the desert languishes in the heat of craving,
deprived of the tuneful rain,
until you arrive with drizzling breeze.
In your pulsating embrace
my heart’s oasis resounds
with the symphony of desire.
As the pristine patina of radiant roses
flushes your crimson cheeks,
rhapsody of longing wraps
the mesmerized meadow of my mind.
The cadence of your intimate heart
pulsates within mine,
I float in the ether of euphoria.
I fly with open wings in your sky,
a storm from nowhere tears me down.
You don’t care for the injured bird,
I hide my pain within me,
clasping the broken heart
within the collapsed wings
I desperately curl with mournful sigh.
My tear drops roll unseen for you
on the trail of melancholy,
where I hear the enchanting echo
of the songs we sang together once.
The tune now resonates like
when doves cry.
June June June June....
is
out of tune
with
imploding doom
unJe uJne Juen June....is out fo
nute tiwh lpidmgino
dmoo…
mdoo omod oodm mdoo...
si ni nuet tihw expoidnlg
oglom
doom doom doom doom...
is
in tune
with
exploding gloom
The earth requires it there.
The poets do not like the lyrics.
As the tsunami approaches the lands
The poem integrates without a solution.
As the summit talks upheld information
Global warming, tariff continues debating:
China not backing down, and we, the poets
Surprisingly asking what’s next?
A poem like this doesn’t comprehend
That earth requires it there,
Make it make sense, this Tariff war
About percentages, or principles of humanity
Make it make sense, make it a kind world
Make it turn water into red wine,
Make them say, “We are for the small people,
And not the profit holder’s fat wallets,
Make the world spin like a Bitcoin machine:
The more money there goes a burden of responsibilities there:
He who pay the Pied piper call the tunes:
,
It's funny. The mind goes there and back,
Switching between lyre to inspire -
And the sober thoughts of black.
If all I love is theory,
And if all I know is fiction,
Then why do eyes get teary,
To the tune of my prediction?
I could dream a thousand times,
And play the songs that flow.
If nothing else at least it rhymes,
With my heart and face aglow.
It's funny. The mind goes there and back,
Switching to inquire and tire -
All the sober thoughts of black.
It's far more fun to forget,
And to sing for what excites.
In ignorance it's nice to get,
A chance to see the lights.
Even if these words won't last,
I don't mind their stay for now.
Lyrics should be slow not fast,
We don't have to wonder how.
It's funny. The mind is taken aback,
Switching inspire to quiet fire -
And smoke's sober thoughts of black.
• Hum a little tune
• As you wait for the bus
• When it sings something wretched
• Don't stir up a fuss
Six enlightened tunes
Eight melodies of virtues
To become acclaimed
In the ten skies of the Church
This is the eternal bell
This poem is about a 1,200 year old Manichaean bell (and its inscription) found in Ordu-Baliq (Capital of the Uyghur Khaganate).
Still as the wind who sings breathless praises
to the tune of a softly glowing moon,
stars whispering to the night, twinkling graceful
abiding in the music, a soothing rhythm
erasing the anxieties, the doubts, the fears
wiping away the darkness, the gentle tears
with a beautiful melancholy, a promise that appears
when twilight fades to darkness and the trees
sigh, praising the One who is life, the story
burning in the soul of those who know Him,
the One who quiets eternity to reveal
a heart who is destined for heaven, where He lives.
"before my eyes dropped their shades
for the night I heard the nightingale singing"
Quote by _Constance
_______________________
mournful his song that it made me weep
his melodious voice drifting
To the man with a skillful hand and a loyal brush, take my words and bring them to life for me.
Paint me a grand piano, with tiles so clean they form a beautiful smile, gracefully greeting the skillful hands that have come to play.
You will give it stable legs, thick and made of steel, legs strong enough to withstand the weight of the songs it will soon play.
To the man painted with a skillful ear and loyal fingers, play me the song written by my soul. Here, you will see your fingers stutter before your eyes to play a broken tune, they will stumble along these perfect keys as they play my discordant song; it will be perfect.
For the painting, will be a masterpiece.
For this painting, will be me, through your skill.
-Malebo.
The start is marked by a gravy weapon,
Puppy barks answer the trumpets' call.
The muzzle is loose, whispers are free,
The light shines through the metal canvas wall.
Gold insulation, thin as wool,
The warmth is hard to find.
The ember processor cools,
And the processor servant leaves the silicone.
A penthouse phallus on the street of rape
The laptop is for the spouse.
No need for a centimeter polisher,
Just a sail and a television in the house.
Grease the radio, pour the smoke,
Liquor is for the cat.
No solid pills or silver hats,
Just a woman feeding with vinegar, that's all.
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