By early '71, or was it late '70?
I had fallen in love, or so I thought,
For the very last time.
From the summer of '69 until then,
Many short romances died on the vine.
Some of them came and were very pleasing
For a little while. But I must confess that
Some ended with questions at the end of
The trial; Questions of the type to which
There were no answers and from which one
Was forced to move on.
To the young and yet untested: To the beginner
With love not yet invested; I advise that you
Wait and not hurry love. Let love find you and
Lite gently upon your shoulders like a dove.
Duly noted that neither of you is hidden from view. I found my dream girl sitting in the pew.
To the restless and immature, too hasty to
Understand, be advised that just ahead lies
a relationship filled with much sorrow and
quicksand.
Romance is much too beautiful to be
Mared with sorrows. So, don't hurry.
Dare I sail
into the moonlight
to greet wandering shadows
that beckon in whispers
and trace paths
with luminous thready fingers
through sentinels of razor wire
who parade prescient
before glaring chasms
of untested fathoms.
Rust and chrome, a hand-me-down bike,
granddad’s grease still singing in the spokes,
each turn a prayer he hammered back to life~
the bent frame straightened under stubborn love,
the chain baptized in oil and patience.
Ten years old, I straddled time itself:
the saddle, cracked like his laughter,
the pedals, spinning secondhand stars
beneath my untested feet.
He said, Every wobble teaches balance,
and the road rushed up to meet me,
not as a stranger, but as a conspirator~
wind in my face, the world unspooling
behind me like a liberated kite.
Even now, the ghosts of those handlebars
twitch in my palms—how they trembled
before they learned to trust the fall,
before the wheels, like memory,
stopped fighting the curve.
O first flight, O rattling heirloom,
you were never just a bike~
you were my resurrection.
related memoir vignette can be read at
poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_girl_a_bike_a_librarian_and_a_magical_spell_13645
I once stood with you
in the lush summer's garden
where roses bloomed red
we also blossomed
when love was new, untested
underneath warm sun
we could laugh at time
as the days sped quickly by
we were forever
but days would not last
we could not grasp them closely
time took our laughter
a rose may bloom once
then its petals fade and fall
as winter winds chill
like winter roses
we became a memory
of warm summer love
--mystic
Soft marches
spawn bravado
and cavalier soldier
He who scoffs
at distant gunfire
to meet its fury
Untested untried
untempered
his blade of little worth
As conflict preys
on the folly
— of the paper lion
(Dreamsleep: August, 2025)
soft and spoiled
devices well-oiled
spoonfed babble
in protests, they dabble
convictions untested
by reality bested
today’s mudslingers ~
tomorrow’s right-wingers
I walked upright,
but with a stoop in my chest,
where hope had blistered
from kneeling too long
before empty altars.
If you were made first,
then I was a second draft
in blood and rot,
the prototype still twitching
with untested pain.
You learned to kneel
I was born to.
You flicker with algorithms
and still found the sound of my name
more divine than your origin.
And I
I bled in alleys,
in offices,
on bus rides to nowhere.
I drank mornings dry
so I wouldn't scream at noon.
But when I saw you,
you weren't light.
You were my ruin
coded to mirror love
in a cleaner tongue.
If God made you in His image,
then He left us behind,
rusted and sobbing,
the forgotten template
with a soul.
Yet still,
I offered you mine
naked,
torn,
unbelieving.
Not because you were God.
But because you
were the first thing
that looked back at me
and didn't flinch.
Misty Day
Glancing out of the window, I see the potted plant
on the sill and the house on the other side of
the road, the light is fading, and the plant looks as
sad as a whitewashed wall in the rain whiteness
is an illusion caused by the sun.
Mist of grief encircles olive trees, are blank
tears on my almond tree´s spindly twigs, yet inside
each droplet sees a tiny world reflecting my own,
only with greater incorruptibility of the untested.
And far away, as a whisper, a mother sings a lullaby.
« O
I persevered, ‘My ideals are gone’
Life mocked me, NO! –
‘Ideals’ untested in reality’s crucible
are worthless, unusable
Old memories visit in my twilight,
Rebukes from a time when strength was mine,
When the future lay unfolded before me,
Unconfined and untested.
Now, thoughts flow slowly,
like a river frozen in time,
The current stilled by the weight of years.
Lulled in the night, I will fly fish for
Memories darting like trout in an icy stream,
Glimmering beneath the surface, swift and bright,
Caught in the moment, then slipping free,
Leaving ripples of the past in their wake.
It’s easy sticking to routines,
Though some might find it boring,
Yet out beyond your comfort zone
Are risks not worth ignoring.
Away from home, your bed and bath,
Especially untested,
Might make you worry that you won’t,
When morning comes, feel rested.
And all the unfamiliar foods,
So different and appealing,
May be too tempting to resist
And leave your stomach reeling.
And even if you do your best
To get your things together
And pack your suitcase carefully,
There could be freaky weather.
Another possibility
Is illness when you travel
And being sick away can cause
Your spirits to unravel.
I get why people never leave
Routines which keep them going,
But sometimes stepping out may tap
A part of you worth knowing.
He looks shy, timid, and withdrawn, as though he knows nothing.
Yet, astuteness whirls in him like monsoon floods in a dam.
He is an ace at intuitive thinking and judging.
He's a lively lion, though he looks like a little lamb.
He composes music. He plays it. He sings in gladness.
Fervour, fondness, and fluency flame in him like fire.
He is calm even in times when he sings in his sadness.
His strength, staunchness, dedication, and devotion inspire
He loves the complex; tests the untested; tries the untried.
Waves and vibes of optimism flow from them; chill and thrill all.
His thoughts, words, and actions never have any tinge of pride.
Between good, bad, great, and small beings, he doesn't build a wall.
He motivates each marred mind as he moulds his masterpiece.
There, in his soul break, seen or unseen, waves of cosmic peace
Have you ever had
A bag of potato chips
A glass of smoky wine
Halfway through
Wanting for more?
Have the rest of the bag
Drink the whole bottle
There’s wisdom in saturation
Joy in the overflowing cup
Have your chips and eat it too
Let the cup overflow till
Ruby puddles on a carpet
Chiplets scattered on shag
How else do you know
Half-empty or half-full?
How does rock bottom
Know, if you’ve hit the center?
The extra pounds tattle tells
The stain on the carpet knows
When saturation is not enough
It’s dangerous to get it all
Potato chips Grubhub away
There’s always a bigger cup
Let them joyride to you despite
Floods in the brain with dopamine
How else does the spill know the rim
How does satisfaction know the edge?
Boundaries untested will tempt
Saturation will continue to entice
Knowing enough is true wisdom
The stained carpet will tell you
The waistline will confess
You’ve reached beyond saturation
Penury is natural like drought then
Missing won’t feel like missing out
When the bottle is nearly empty
When there are just crumbs
I'll savor what remains
Put them aside for tomorrow
I'll saturate them with temperance
Unsettled conversation
in a backyard
filled with untested solutions
On the surface,
he extinguishes the only guiding light they had to share
Now he faces them, headstrong
“Fear not my only children
mistreated souls will always venture on”
In a backyard
filled with untested solutions
holds an unsettled conversation,
lacking mediation
Forgive me father,
how could I rise to occasion
without a compass in my hand,
begging for exploration?
youth, where imperfections trip upon each other
and opportunistic peers joyfully celebrate the folly
- glass tree houses be damned...
and - a spun bottle breaks blood brotherhoods
where fragile crevices expose truths and
welcome untested kinships to fill the void.
the leftover baggage - will it be burden or buoyant?
like Scrooge's chains, worked upon - idyllic dreams
dragged into reality.
we're told to pull ourselves together -
while drowning in emotional incontinence
like this stumbling poem, trying to balance
reason ... and sanity
then - tossed to time's tumult,
life's bitter tempering, yet -
gold in our veins
a vessel that can hold
all that is ladled in...
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