A beetle begins its shift
where the day left off~
at the edge of a stone
it has moved before.
It tests the surface first,
tapping once with an antenna,
then proceeds,
lifting each leg deliberately
as though the ground requires
confirmation.
A pebble blocks its path.
It pauses,
gives a soft scrape,
nudges it half an inch
then continues,
the adjustment noted
only by the beetle itself.
On bark,
its carapace catches
the a pale pull of light~
a thin, ancestral shimmer
that recalls the long night
its kind has always known.
It inspects a fallen leaf,
turning it slightly
to read the underside~
a task completed nightly,
never hurried,
never skipped.
By dawn,
nothing looks changed,
though the beetle has worked
every inch
of its small world.
And yet the dark feels steadier
even in our quiet daily labors~
minute corrections
that keep the hours aligned,
and meaningful
until the first pale light
lifts the edges of the day
and carries work
forward.
something shifted
not loudly
just a thin bright seam
opening between seconds
a glimmer
uninvited
but welcome
like a thought remembering itself
today leaned
sideways
and the air
held its breath
a pale shimmer
slid across my hands
soft as dust deciding to glow
and I stood there
in the middle of the room
feeling the world
tilt
ever so slightly
as if it wanted
to show me
the underside
of light
You can live
ad infinitum
until you die
but once
The end of all
beginning
a finality
that trumps
You can live
free of its power
but not beyond
its grip
The underside
of sentience
in shadows
— looming thick
(Dreamsleep: January, 2026)
Written: November 10, 2025, for contest sponsored by Constance la France.
Quote: "The ocean sparks the heart, inspires the mind, and brings amaranthine delight to the spirit." — By Poet
******************
Atlantic swirls, quilt sewn from hums of yore,
A glimmering shroud, a face in swing core.
Its ridged forms whisper tales long lost to time,
From Viking ship venture to the toil of slave chime.
It sparkles brightly in absence of light,
A flexible refrain, the sound of a gull's flight.
In its shadows, there is both death and gold,
Amid a tempest, the song of a siren doled.
Brine it casts upon the sand of the coast,
Sounds as a solemn plea, or a hushed boast.
Flows are at odds with the urges of man,
But chisel the underside of each span.
It shows gales and sadness of a lover,
And holds peace of the past eras hover.
Plenty of vessels rubbed against its fluid grasp,
And none granted the familiar embers to clasp.
Let it to bellow, or consent to its repose,
The Atlantic runs vast and may oppose.
It murmurs in dialects beyond our control,
Yet it lingers, as a whisper within the soul.
Blossoms like my journal.
Scratches like the underside of my desk.
Chases me like a magnifying glass.
Twiddles its thumbs like a drawer.
Tangles like patterns on socks.
Flutters like a glass orb.
There were two days until therapy.
Bright and stunning conversations.
One hour until therapy?
I was gone.
One minute until therapy.
Tastes like opening up.
Stripes undone.
Couches like sitting in stew.
Suddenly, I lost the urge to sit on the couch.
And talk.
Tired like someone walking out the door of the therapist office.
30 seconds until my absence is noticed.
Abrupt like a therapist’s phone call.
But I’m already as gone as a rabbit.
Laughing like a rabbit so.
I've had this spool of wire for nearly 20 years.
And I’m almost out of it.
Sure, people may look at it and be confused at my sadness.
They’ll ask why I’m so fixated on this spool of wire.
But, inside my head I just keep thinking to myself.
I’ve had this spool of wire for nearly 20 years, and now?
I’m almost out of it.
Sure its tightly wound, held together tightly by the forces that be,
The whole thing under tension unless I’m near people I trust to unravel it.
But I’ve- I’ve had it for almost 20 years.
Now I’m almost out of it.
And- I’m looking down at it, the same way I did 20 years ago and just-
It’s almost gone.
This wire,
This steel straight I’ve had for 20 years,
This.
Lifeline.
It’s almost gone.
Sure theres some rust on the underside,
Sure there’s cuts in places from when I got mad or upset-
But
It's almost gone.
And it’s stupid, I know it is,
But- I looked up to this spool,
This thing I always had.
I realized I had it in my mind that it would always be here.
Now its clear it won’t be one day.
And- I’ll need to get a new one,
With the knowledge it’ll also run out, 20 years from now.
cranky bee was born on the underside of the hive
he has been cranky since minutes old, maybe five
this was from his mother, but his daddy agreed
He has always been angry, always seems peeved.
you could not have a regular conversation with him
He was always angry with Tom, Dick, Johnny and Jim
Always looking for the bad side, and always finding it too
He is still angry today, and he is forty-two
Most have moved on, and do not waste any time
They see that he is determined to be filled with irritation grime
cranky bee has never gotten over one single slight
Frankly, said my drone friend; he is not very bright.
Baby swing unused for eight years
Glider has sat dormant since 2019
Dual slides; who was the last one to slide down them?
I do not remember because it has been a while
I congratulate myself on making this play park into a dog park
The dogs use the underside of the slides for shade
They have dug holes around the pool
Now our little dog is making mud pies with his paws
Where the wild things grow, you are mine,
In tangled roots and ivy’s twine.
A love that blooms where shadows play,
In secret realms the world can’t stay.
Your love got me clowning, spinning in crime,
Tripping on whispers, lost to time.
Stumbling over soil, the earth our stage,
Falling for truths that elude the page.
Secret whispers, no one should hear,
Echo softly whenever you are near.
Unspoken truths with a rhythm so fine,
A language unknown, just yours and mine.
We steal away to a garden concealed,
A place where the sky and stars have healed.
Hidden arches, where moments freeze,
Our mystery haven beneath the trees.
But oh, this yearning's a fragile thread,
A fire aglow where mortals tread.
Its burden clings like a mournful tide,
This love lives only on the underside.
Beneath the veil, where the wild things grow,
Our hearts are free, though none can know.
In shadows deep, we write our rhyme,
A fleeting tale untouched by time.
Moments become wet steppingstone
over a stream of consciousness.
At breakfast, a TV delivers omens
with a perky disposition.
Buttering grilled bread, distracted by normality,
slipping through the well-greased gears
of a self-made reality,
then a singing hint of burnt toast
ripples through suddenly aware
nostril hair.
What should you do today -
walk the mood off
or pray brother pray?
Will the monstrous appear,
its likeness --- cute and kittenish,
though even now
new velvet satanic horns
are already budding.
Will the fuzz and fur turn quickly
to scabs and scales?
Sinister left-handed slaps of hysteria
swipe the sweat from wrinkled foreheads.
In a room bereft of natural illumination,
a light on an open laptop is blinking,
imagination types a nightmare
on the underside of its blank screen.
Brains unchecked by reason,
swivel inside their bony portholes,
they search this way and that
for a more feasible fantasy
before this amorphous apprehension
emerges fully clothed
as an all too familiar
mirror image.
Do you sometimes use GPS
To navigate your flat world?
Did you ever wonder how all those satellites
Get around to the underside?
Do you use a flush toilet
Or a siphon?
See, fluids can sometimes run uphill.
Your “the Amazon River is flat” theory
Fails to hold water.
Did you ever consider an Antarctic cruise?
Did you ever want to sail around the South Pole?
You could look out for the ice-wall
That you think holds the oceans in.
Do you recognize a metaphor?
When the Bible talks about the
“Four corners of the Earth”,
It’s an idiom for distant lands,
Or is your world-view ‘square’?
Every other celestial body we can see is round.
Why should the Earth be so different?
Phases of the Moon,
Pictures of Earth taken by astronauts,
The “celestial spheres” really are spherical.
If you need a book to tell you what is real,
Try a physics book.
If you need a tool to discern what is right,
Try logic or experiment.
Try to see beyond the horizon.
If your world is really constricted
To what you can see from your limited view,
Then, perhaps, start walking.
bomber jacket, dark glasses
blown out hair,
faded jeans that fit me slim,
brown leather belt and shoes,
a dangling cigarette between lips,
is how I would fancy look!
Reality is something else,
and what I look is more like this…
A T shirt straight out of wash,
never seen the underside of iron,
crumpled to show how the machine spins!
trousers broad fit that struggle to stay
at the waist, with a belt that fails to grip,
the colours of these never match,
and the shoes are ones that were
quick to reach, and the result is a
riot of disagreeable colours!
who cares!!! That is me!
When I walk, my wife walks with me
separated by a hundred feet,
with her impeccable attire that
compliments every fraction of her,
with lipsticks to match!!
Style of clothing do not make a man
but they seem to make a woman!
Reality of life is mismatch of things,
that we learn to love and to live with!
That is why we have been married years!!
our distances in clothes is bridged by
our deep understanding and love for
each other! And when this love really
gets to work- we often discard our clothing!!
Winter taunts with his sunset
blushing the underside of clouds
with colors of Spring blossom pinks
stretched across the waning sky.
Painted as with an artist’s
expert brush
teasing my soul
languishing in yearning
for the breath of Spring,
Reminding me who watches
how very distant
Spring blossoms be.
From the underside of a milkweed leaf you appeared to me, oh butterfly
you spanned and metamorph before my eyes
from a tiny caterpillar to a creature full of flame.
They call you the common tiger or the wanderer, but to me
you are "The Monarch," most regal butterfly of both heaven and earth.
To Southern Mexico you will soon migrate, just when the frost begins to settle, on the northern rooftops.
Like the tiny feathered birds that quiver as the winds of change appear,
one cool September day you will whisk yourself away.
Unlike the Asters & the morning glories, late bloomers of the season,
your short life span requires you to take flight, without treason.
Come to my flower garden one more time dear Monarch,
and show me the beauty that is truly thine. (pause)
From the underside of a milkweed leaf, you appear to me, butterfly
born to seize the sky you soar and aim for warmer weather ,
who could ever ask you, why ?
Written by: Vienna Bombardieri aka Mystic Rose
Ladybug, my Ladybug,
Large you're not and not a slug.
Leaves you-leap to so cute my little bug.
Like Strawberry wings does my heart you tug.
Light and small you are zephyr does snug.
Lawn and garden blooms you hug.
Lace azalea on leaf underside does shrug,
Last the spider looking so smug.
Ladybug, you’re my little Ladybug,
3/14/2023
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