The needle-clock that pokes holes in the mind,
Whereby a pan of half-remembered past
Is sieved, and thus from memory confined,
Faileth against some fragments sticking fast.
The gripsack-brain is packed with brittle tinder,
For memories once lit do warm the soul.
Whenas old age shall dwindle blaze to cinder,
Though 'twill be hard to recollect them whole,
Being too truncated by the racing sword
Of time, so that they might even feel untrue,
We nonetheless will remain meet to ford
The dreamy stream of earlier days anew.
Though many memories will leave our sight,
Yet in the rearguard some won't take their flight.
All Christians live with fervent hope
That they would see their Lord appear,
This is the hope that buoys their soul
Amid the toils and cares of life.
But then they die before that time,
therefore, it seems they hoped in vain.
Death seems to be the hope-dasher
of Christians dear, in every age.
The skeptics point to this and say,
ages ago, Christ was to come
an absentee, he seems to be
All things exist as they have been.
But truth be told, all Christians live
the good life promised by their Lord
They then lie down and fall asleep
oblivious of the state of death.
The flight of time they know not of,
be it days or thousands of years.
When Jesus comes, and they are raised
for them ‘twill be just a new day.
There is no disappointed hope,
for those who in Christ do believe.
Their lives are held in secure arms
For Christ has sealed their destiny.
O dreaded death, where is your sting?
O grave, where is your victory?
Christ mocked you when He rose again
breaking the portals of the tomb.
Soon the trumpet of God will sound,
And all the dead in Christ shall rise
to meet their Savior in the air
and with Him joy celestial share.
Nosferatu, I got a ear for this ship.
I'm all ears.
Predominantly black, attire twill and tweed.
Intriguing to the stem
Nosferatu
Projection with black cinema.
With a rear end like black velveteen.
Satin and wool like a sheep.
That never goes to sleep.
In my conure' owl state.
Dabs of pink monstrosities
stained her torn buttlebees
while bitter tabblecurs
stabbed her bare knees.
She lay upon the forest floor
as death teased her sad head
and numbing poison
paralyzed her blackening limbs.
'Twill be this evening
'fore she's found
by a skilled nursemaid
whom drags her to tothermeld.
Days shall pass with torment
while the lass heals with
dallies of sonderlils
laced with summerlice.
She will lose one leg
yet she will rise with gratitude
and kiss the grundlesky morn.
I was going to add a long remix track to a playlist,
A playlist called ‘Waitin For the Bus in the Dark’,
But waitin for the bus in the dark is as tedious as it is -
Making a remix tedious alongside it wouldn’t make sense.
The remix is exciting now -
Anticipating excitement knocking on my eardrums as I wonder how the tune will change.
But next time,
If I play it too soon,
I’ll know.
I’ll just know.
Knowing keeps listening from being curious,
And makes it here we go again.
But “here we go again” are lyrics in an excellent song -
1973 by James Blunt.
Maybe I could add that with the remix to the playlist
And never know which will play first.
Maybe I could add so many songs
That twill be one unmemorable remix
That won’t all play in the time I’m waiting for the bus,
One unmemorable remix that Spotify can shuffle out of order.
The bus I’m waiting for now is too long away
To make it to my trans support group before it ends,
So I’ll make my way home
And bump into an old friend
Who must have started to find me tedious
Or forgotten about me,
Like a song on shuffle that barely plays,
Forgotten how good it is.
This ship that I’ve chosen to sail be proven swift and strong.
We’ve weathered much together, she and I.
So many days amidst the wind and storms we’ve travelled long
to cross this mighty ocean here beneath the endless sky.
Sometimes it seems that this will be how I spend all my days,
like being tossed at sea is all there is.
It’s hard to hold out faith that there be more than endless waves,
but I am being true to his promise -
That there’s a land ahead that God has called me to sail to,
somewhere that he has prepared just for me.
So, I sail on despite the storms for I know if I’m true…
‘twill have been worth it to be tossed at sea.
Written on 17th November, 2025
for the texture of minimalist poetry contest
by Nette Onclaud
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
tough for rough stuff
workwear for casual fits
rugged for donkey years
closets still store its cool warmth
twill-woven blue
white strewn over indigo
softness toughened with dye
its glory a wardrobe song
Serge de Nîmes
a tough, rough twill for workwear
made blue to fade and scuff—
to weather as souls are bared
a second skin
unpretentious, in fashion
yet rebellious and rough—
mocking the myth of clothing
A twill and threadbare poorhouse,
a school.
Broods drilled by unsullied nuns
into sullen lines.
The muted squeak of timid mice
as new brown leather boots
attempt to skip,
though skipping is an offense
behind the fence.
We are tagged, and fed tapioca,
led to cold toilet blocks
to scrub ink-stained fingers
with bricks of green carbolic,
while outside
rosery beads click impatiently.
Rain or shine; strays,
tykes and orphans
are made to march through,
a gray flannelled time
for God knows what reason,
or for God knows what
dark twisted rhyme.
Italics, seek to emphasize.
Sacrifice, thy spill.
Seer and prophet, inner eyes.
Oracle, see nil.
Happiness, thy fate is doom.
Engraved on a tomb.
Belladonna, thy full bloom.
Heart of mine? No room...
Wind, carry the sparks of fire.
Cicadas, shriek loud.
Blessed is a dark desire?
Humble thus the proud.
Union of tomorrow?
It's got to start today.
Soil, what is thy sorrow?
Whene'er I blow away.
Castle weighted down with ice?
Well, 'twill stop a siege.
Penury, plight, poison, price.
Light a match, my liege.
Wicker man, thy nick'ring mare.
Fingernails to pare.
Death arises from despair?
Bet I'll see you there.
Hair beneath a river's flow?
Warrior, you slipped.
Gold: the reason all men go!
Quahog, how you quipped!
Tympani, train thy temper.
Tomorrow, tamarisk.
Tale and talent, take the tour.
Time the torrent brisk...
Scarce thought held I for angel's hearts, though oft touched by their wings.
Sure the mind stays fixed from mortal parts, while to you an angel sings.
Then light pours down from heaven above, through virgin forest crown.
And long last seen through haloed love, the weary heart lays down.
And long last seen through haloed love, the weary heart lays down.
Chorus:
I'll never break your heart.
I'll hold it as the fragile rose, whose petals ne'er shall part.
I'll never break my vow.
I'll hold fast 'gainst the ebb and flow, as strong then e'en as now.
I never will break down.
While crimson'd cataract course these veins, I'll stand upon my ground.
While crimson'd cataract course these veins, I'll stand upon my ground.
Red lips told me, "'Twill break my heart, if ever you take your leave.
Should worldly 'fairs tear us apart, fair Heaven forever would grieve."
Then place your trust alone in God, ne'er mindful of the rest.
While angels tread that hallowed sod, to you my love is blest.
While angels tread that hallowed sod, to you my love is blest.
CHORUS
And I never will break your heart.
.
wool
twill weave
cardiganz
harem pants
boots
hoodiez
aran coats
dents
I'll be waiting quietly
Back behind the scenes
In case, perhaps it's meant to be
That we live out those dreams
I'll still be up most half the night
Thinking hard and long
And in my mind 'twill in my sight
See Bluebird singing songs
Reading books I think you'd like
Each year one more in sum
Talking to you while I bike*
You never knew that one
Everything will be just fine
Worry not for me
Regardless if the us be mine
Or not, we'll wait and see
*Secret
There's a plaque at number 1-0-5
'Twill be there for some years
And anyone who looks at it
Will just see what appears
But they won't know the meaning
What lies behind the word
All they'll see when reading it
Is simply this, "Bluebird"
A testament to something?
A nickname for someone?
No one will have an inkling
They'll just think it's fun
But two out of eight billion
Do know the secret of
What lies behind that little plaque,
A token of one's love
My auntie, who was on vacation
Was lusting for fast fornication
She met a well-hung guy
But her foo-foo’s too dry
She blurted, “It needs lubrication!”
The fella, whose first name was Dick
Said, “Stay put. I’ll be back real quick
I’ll purchase sticky Jell-O
‘Twill turn your foof bright yellow
But ensures my entry is slick!"
The Jell-O lube worked really well
Dick satisfied my Auntie Mel
Next time she needs some lube
She’ll melt a Jell-O cube
Aunt’s shagged out. I think you can tell!
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