Many things are not explained.
I fell asleep in a sepulchre of words
in my quest for further understanding.
I gathered their meanings one by one
arranging them in patterns
according to colour;
aligning them in rows
according to size.
Some comforted, some injured;
they all tasted different.
Not all of them meant well
and many were ambiguous.
I was bewildered by their variety,
their complex duplicity
and singular simplicity.
Some were sharp and well defined,
others dubious and unrefined.
Although not native to them,
I felt at home in their midst;
and from the time they started
to visit my dreams, I felt accepted
and became one with them,
almost.
You can tell I’m not the real McCoy,
not from the words themselves
but from the way they are strung together:
Byzantine pearls from the Near East
held together by
a Hellenic twist.
Children, pancakes, needlework
An initial draft, a first book
It’s no surprise they came out weird
No matter what pains you took
The first one is the practice one
You need it, to make a start
It’s okay, it won’t be perfect;
We weren’t expecting a work of art
It’ll be squiggly around the edges
Details not well defined
Awkward, clunky, unpolished
Scruffy and unrefined
If you haven’t got the knack yet
It’s understandable, you’re new
You’re learning how to unlock your skills;
What you should and shouldn’t do
You have to make the cringey first one
So your deftness can grow wild
The next attempt will be infinitely better
By B Philippe (a second child)
To line the inside of a pipe, we first find safety equipment; Next, we secure the pipe in place and point it in the correct direction, so molten gold doesn't set fire to the workshop. (when it has been poured through)
After this, we gather the unrefined gold and gently lower it into the furnace until molten, then separate any impurities. Once refined, we pour the gold through the pipe (wearing safety equipment), making sure none of it spills in the process.
We leave the pipe to settle until cool;
To create thicker layers of gold within the pipe, we repeat the same process. If the gold is molten, refined, and moving through, the pipe will not block or burst. If the pipe is pointing in the correct direction, there will be no wasted gold or fire hazard.
Minor burns are expected and managed during the process.
I Am the goldsmith. This is my advice.
Petunia is the plain little sister
who gets overlooked and passed over.
She’s not the pretty one,
always quiet and reserved,
not classy, fancy or graceful.
She takes backstage at every turn.
No games, no false pretenses.
She’s frumpy, floppy and flimsy.
Her scent is unrefined,
not confused with real perfumes.
She’s somewhat of an ugly duckling
but when the going gets tough,
we can’t help but admire
her tenacity when facing adversity.
Slow and steady wins the race.
She’s low maintenance, demure and bashful.
So reliable is her performance,
she’s been known to outshine competition.
Unpretentious and free from vanity
Yet, fact not known… surprise ~
petunia blooms are edible !
AP: 2nd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
Stones left unturned for those that seek truth among the urns.
I care not to seek out answers requiring a life’s sacrifice of family and name.
Secrets revealed. Kingdoms rise, then disappear. Buried beneath silicon dunes of unrefined glass. Reflected back a whisper of their past.
The abyss now lay claim to their lands.
Endless cyclical tides, wash ashore smashed relics of a time long forgotten.
Blending perfectly with tumbling mollusks and stone.
But, all too soon. Quicker than we think. Our bodies reduced to boney fragments. Charging towards some beach.
Stones left unturned, are left better unlearned. History unfolds lessons, that are left better; alone
Skills were suppressed
while others took flight
a way of life put to rest
another came to bear
Scratched in moonlight
held on for a wild ride
spread across reality
like ash in shifting wind
Generational shifts
pathways dimly lit
leading toward
a white hot light
From solitude to fortitude
no picnic but a buffet
of trials and triumphs
I’ve stood on stages unrefined
buffed and polished by time
until life and self
became intertwined
I met them at work,
Dressed perfect for this art—
Crop tops that teased,
And curves played their part.
They were mining,
The rarest of ores—
Soft as glass,
Pure as stars.
No shovels in hand,
Just allure and sway.
Bodies bare, daring to be
The "baddies" of the day.
A man desperate to find,
Something pure, something kind.
Craving love to ease his mind,
Like a baby, unrefined.
But miners know not
To linger deep in the hole.
Once they've struck the ore,
They abandon the soul.
Leaving the earth exposed,
Erosion sets in fast.
Cultivation forever lost,
A once-green man now a shadow of the past.
A gold digger's task,
Weeks of mining, fleeting sight.
The ore uncovered,
The gold stripped overnight.
I do not want a neon God
Orange bright
Flourescent pink, glowing light
For all to see
In darkest night
I'd rather have
The subtle charm
With strength to hold in every arm
Or patient hope
And solid calm
I do not need
The flashy stuff on garish stage
With visuals on every page
As life rotates
Through human age
The wisdom now
To soulful dreams
Is silence it seems
That reveals
God's delicate schemes
The inner room
The heart space, clear
Where gratitude for every tear
Is soaked by love
Replacing fear
The worldly clamour
For my mind
The buzzing lights so unrefined
Revealed deception
Cruel, unkind
I neutralise
With heavenly truth
A mystery disguised to youth
Of settled soul. Of peaceful rhythm
Released control
A rhyme untainted
The ancient rule
Of beauty unpainted so old it's cool
The teacher's in...
Not classroom school
That neon fad
That tragic shouting
From soapbox square, no crumbs for birds
Meaningless pouting
Just empty words
So I resolve to dim the bright
Pull down the shade
So that there might
Be revelation by
Internal light
In Shallow Hours, graves are dug
By words morose,
Their hollow powers seem mundane,
But are much worse.
Being Lonely in a crowded room,
With empty words
Muttered by survivors;
Whose frosty breath in time,
With second hand,
Will still ones heart with breach of mind
From gestures grand;
So gentle souls as we,
Will speak no more about it.
This too shall pass as melancholy.
Whispered mischief of the gods;
The poisoned fruit of folly.
As seasons run their course;
Whose touch so coarse,
Flow unrefined.
A baking of our Maker's choice,
Upon which we have dined.
Too many courses chose
Again, the Blackened Rose.
Life without salience
For such as those.
Naked She,
No longer seductress,
Temptress to youth
Our lives attempt atone.
Experienced eyes, now show revealed;
A Harlot to the bone.
What drug could so impair?
What game be more unfair?
What beauty in beholder's eye,
Less rare?
False Gods flail.
Chariot wheels on ipad screens
In most minute detail.
Now kiss your new God
Soft upon His cheek
And in a moment, through Alexa,
He may speak.
inside a space where quiet trails
I watch a starscape reel through the night
to taste new charms of heaven's sprawl--
lucent the new light waking laced leaves
like a satin ribbon twirling round;
that in a hush all shadows creep
sailing on an air of unconsciousness:
When the white of.pristine tones cascade
I sleep in the arms of dreams unrefined ...
and let a north star bless my world within.
------
lines culled from:
About Time
A Glorious Alchemy
Resting With Nature
Delightful Things
Playful Chant Of The Wind
Into A Woodland
Dream-like Silhouette
Through All Seasons
Someday
Finding Me
Blue
berries
on the vine.
Gift of Nature.
Unrefined fresh fruit,
unwashed, eaten just so.
Option to blend special treats –
muffins, smoothies, cobblers, and pies.
Scrumptious splendor, sweet summer surprise.
We lived happily beneath thatched roofs
Feasting merrily on simple fare
Dressed in familiar, humble garb
At peace in our unrefined ways.
Oh, how I miss those old days
When we walked miles just for fun
Telling tales of old, one by one—
How beautiful they were, those old days.
Our leaders were sources of inspiration
Not objects of disdain and abomination
Praised for their kindness and bravery
Not glorified for their folly and thievery.
Those old days
When the wind whispered to those who listened
And the sun brightened the vision of the blind—
Those were the golden times: the good old days.
REFINING CONSCIOUSNESS
The time has long gone since consciousness woke
Some do say that it is unique to the human mind
For some it always appears as mirrors and smoke
The sharpest brain is sometimes quite hard to find
For them, study and mental exercises might work
And for all the rest, they have just left it unrefined
But with brain exercises, one should not go berserk
An ability for thinking straight is often quite enough
Otherwise, one just embraces all that mist and murk
So, no more of all that dry academic research stuff
There are many brains still collecting dust and fluff
I have been called a hippy dippy;
Transient, I travel when I can,
to me mellow flow is so groovy;
Traveling from city to city,
that flower child who lives in a van;
I have been called a hippy dippy;
My spirit’s always been a gypsy;
With a tie dyed hand sign it began,
to me mellow flow is so groovy;
Cliche’ but I’m known to hug a tree,
nature is my hallucinogen;
I have been called a hippy dippy;
On the water I drift dreamily
aboard a laid back catamaran,
to me mellow flow is so groovy;
So chill unrefined far out at sea;
Ya dig? I’m all about peace man;
I have been called a hippy dippy,
to me mellow flow is so groovy.
So dainty how she held the tea cup,
sipping showing off manicured nails;
I walk in and fall with a thump;
Hot spots splotch a face that pales,
yet never do they hear me scream;
I secure the win as ‘Graceful’ fails;
So unrefined is how it may seem
meeting the floor with my face;
Channeling poise I quickly redeem;
Transformed by soft metamorphosis,
a still lady below the surface.
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