How long can nature bear a world that sinned
As oceans rise to swallow up the shore?
Our business greeds are scattered by the wind,
While maddened skies demand we build no more.
The dying forests gasp for cleaner breath,
The rivers scream against their concrete chains,
We dance a blind, collective march to death,
Ignoring patterns in the monsoon rains.
And yet, hope stays put in the soil and seed,
If human hearts untangle pride from power,
To take from Earth no more than what we need,
Before we reach the final, fateful hour.
The cycle heals, erasing every fear,
Though man has lived behind a fenced frontier.
__________________________________
Happenings | 20.09.2026 | Earth, nature, ocean, rain, river, world, crown of sonnets
Darkness whisks the egg white strands
into the yellow yolk glob.
Time claws its way
wallowing through a quagmire
of booze, ooze and bog-breath delays.
"I'm Late, I'm Late!"
"Who Spake?"
"Who's seen better Ways?"
Feet spread strangely,
disengage and untangle.
Interlocking with toe taps
pin-pointed to barre-
laughing at those old elbows and knees.
The gasp of old shadows
lurking in clouds
dispels the carnival
confetti spaghetti charade,
to yell:
"Joie de Vivre!
"What the hell!"
"Is all this stuff about?"
Silence lies petrified
by a pillar of Babel-borne salt
outside of the window.
It can't get out of bed.
“I’m fine! OK!"
"I'm laying in"
"Playing dead!"
Each contradiction
spoke with impeccable diction.
Intonation interlaced;
with poise and puréed perfection,
personified.
It brought applause, clapped with one hand
behind the other,
a contra-counterpart.
A toot toot touche,
bowing to cheers
from both ways.
An extra scribble
appears beside my own draft
across the blank page.
The words arrive more swiftly
yet who really spoke them?
Together we weave
a cloth, neither hand could make—
Collaboration!
At dawn I can't untangle
who wrote each word in the thread.
A ghost at my desk,
finished unfinished thoughts,
before I wrote them.
I gain a clearer voice, yet
lose the sense of - by and with.
I have a whimsical patience.
I just have to untangle the slithering awkwardness.
Because I have trusty sludge in my pocket.
I shift through different time zones.
Hopeful.
Reliant as the splotches hissing on my arms.
Untangled.
Like eating old socks, they promised.
They taste as good as taffy.
But that’s just my whimsical patience.
Rustic.
Just like eating the weirdest stuff.
And no after dinner mint ever.
By Phan Tan Hai
One day you slammed the door,
and for a lifetime you walked far away.
A hundred years my soul stays open,
waiting for you through seasons of fading flowers.
One day the old fragrance lingers still,
a lifetime drunk on its sweetness.
You left—my soul swayed and staggered,
waiting for you through the ruin of love.
Your red lips still mark the wine glass;
you’re gone, yet your laughter remains.
How can I find the right words
to untangle your wind-tossed hair at the edge of the sky?
You left, but your shadow stayed—
once you stood on tiptoe,
breathing into my soul a slant of dying sunlight,
a kiss lost among the dusty paths of this world.
Joy and pain are joined at the hip
Can't we yet untangle that grip?
While hurt has a fang
Yin’s mad about Yang
Though sadness appears on the trip
I’m wandering, lost in twilight’s haze —
Will you hide in your depths, my guiding maze?
My heart’s worn thin, like old lace in moonlight,
Can you be the rhythm… reborn, pure, bright?
Destiny frowned — but I won’t stay bound,
Will you untangle its knots, where truth is found?
I loved you true — no masks, no play,
Will you honor that love, come what may?
I drift through paths unnamed, unseen —
Will you be my harbor? My sacred green?
Maybe I stumbled… maybe I strayed…
Will you show me the way? No more delay?
I roam the edges of time, trapped, alone —
Can you be my sky? My verse, my own?
Listen… I’m lost — but not beyond repair,
Can you gift me peace? A moment to breathe, to care?
Embrace my dreams — wild, tender, raw —
Let them dance in your light, without a flaw.
I carry questions — soft, unsure —
Can you promise me this? I’ll be yours, pure?
Forget the ghosts? Or cherish them still?
Either way — will you make me feel whole? My will?
I wait… for grace, for a hand to hold,
Will you be that embrace? My story’s gold?
I’m lost — but longing to find my place,
Will you be the waiting? My sacred space?
He helps me untangle these binding chains
Of my old lingering depressive growing pains.
His love warms me like the blood in my veins.
He loves me despite me crying heavy rains.
He holds me like he holds himself to his word.
I begin to feel free and less like a caged bird.
His devotion manifested from my foreword.
He helps me see how my negativity's absurd.
He soothes with simple yet true proclamation:
He'll never abandon me, as he has dedication.
He tells me to think of him in each affirmation.
He teaches me I needn't suffer self-affliction.
He speaks to me in terms of soul to soul.
His love always making me feel so whole.
Someday for us our wedding bell shall toll.
His love perfectly fills my heart's empty hole.
The poet knows that broken things
still catch and hold the light,
that even shattered verses
can illuminate the night.
We write our way through tangled thoughts,
untangle knots with rhyme,
transform the chaos in our minds
to music, line by line.
Each word a small rebellion
against the urge to hide,
each poem proof that even pain
can blossom into pride.
So let the ink flow freely
through the labyrinth of care—
for in the act of writing down,
we learn that we are there.
Not lost, not gone, not broken past
the power to create,
but human, whole, and worthy of
the stories we translate.
Intertwined but the thread loosens.
Do you still feel connected?
Drifting slowly into pieces.
Fabric shredded, work of art.
Seams untangle in the start.
Have you not felt this?
Turning twisted opposite directions.
Fragmented linen, holes unsightly.
This dreary separation strikes nightly.
Can you save this?
Complacent attire, routine rags.
Still my favorite sweater.
Who are you?
Where were you?
What’s the connection?
Why now?
My mind ponders,
In figment of imagination, it wanders.
Seeking truths in riddles better left untold.
As I walked in alone,
What was the calling, unknown?
Masked in a cloak, perhaps a riddle to see,
Waiting for you to appear, to help untangle me.
What is pure joy?
What is elation?
An infant cradled in mothers’ arm,
The embrace, the warmth.
The laughter of a child,
All innocence, free from guile.
The maiden glance, the nascent word.
Phew…Effervescent beats surged within,
A fountain of joy bubbling unseen.
Your aura, brushed in hues of rainbow’s gleam.
Your vibes, as pleasant as the memory of a childhood dream.
And I stood smitten, shaken & stirred,
Awoken from the slumber, my vision blurred.
Sometimes, a lifetime is never enough,
Sometimes, a moment is magic in puff.
Sometimes, words vanish, unable to explain,
Sometimes, silence sings what the heart can’t contain.
Walking in, I didn’t know my calling,
Saying goodbye, my thoughts and feelings were sprawling.
Blessed I am to have experienced you,
Pending tale, yet untold, will follow.
The poet knows that broken things
still catch and hold the light,
that even shattered verses
can illuminate the night.
We write our way through tangled thoughts,
untangle knots with rhyme,
transform the chaos in our minds
to music, line by line.
Each word a small rebellion
against the urge to hide,
each poem proof that even pain
can blossom into pride.
So let the ink flow freely
through the labyrinth of care—
for in the act of writing down,
we learn that we are there.
Not lost, not gone, not broken past
the power to create,
but human, whole, and worthy of
the stories we translate.????????????????
slowly we evolve
blinking within universes
moving forward solve
facing ourselves in mirrors
knowingness sees then stands deep
nothing becomes time
matter meaningless messy
we sing songs as chime
when awakening to truth
egos escape shiver shake
let go forgiving
untangle own threads and dread
climb green trees to see
eclipses giving clarity
on the path with sanity
I can’t believe I once believed
that dragons could shed tears—
a time when my mind was robed
in the fragile cloth of childhood.
I wandered alleys where clouds bent low,
pressing their weight upon my skull.
Shadows snapped at my heels like starving dogs,
my heart swung loose inside my throat.
The tremor in my boots chained me still,
and every thought I birthed became a phantom,
scrawled in the dark, painted across the sky.
Those years were lived in trembles and fears,
each night a prayer for the ocean to come,
to wash me clean of figures
that crouched in corners,
that flickered like mirages where light bled thin.
How did those faces dissolve,
slipping from cloudbanks and corridors of shade?
How did they crawl out of my mind,
leaving silence where terror once nested?
Why was the darkness that devoured me then
locked away as a riddle,
a secret even I cannot untangle?
And those I asked only mirrored my silence.
Some still breathe the same trembling air—
fears childhood carved deep,
fears adulthood disguised.
But new specters gather around me now,
pressing their weight like tides unseen,
and once more I beg the ocean:
take me under, strip me clean.
i will do it
the day after tomorrow.
i will do it
when the sun feels less
like an interrogation,
and my skin stops
aching from the weight of my blankets.
i will answer texts,
fold the clothes,
untangle the mess in my chest
long enough to sweep the floor.
i’ll brush my teeth
like it means something.
but not today.
not while the silence
keeps calling me back.
i know this isn’t living.
i know.
but knowing and moving
are countries apart.
i keep promising myself
a better self.
one that rises with intention,
one that doesn’t let coffee go cold
three times before giving up.
the day after tomorrow
i’ll start again.
the day after tomorrow
i’ll believe that means something.
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