A deep, delicious ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ earth and sky --
A gracious ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ wakening,
The morn has been ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ restless ¦¦¦¦¦
In which the pulse ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ran ¦¦¦ high
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ its heart went nigh
¦¦¦ bursting with delights ¦¦¦¦ uttering:
Now--as an o'erjoyed child ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
All falteringly at play, ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ pictures of a fairy-tale
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ dreams ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ comes o'er the day
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ silence wherein all sounds fail
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ sounds of some roundelay . . .
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ effort ¦¦¦¦¦¦ may avail --
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the dozer sinks away.
(Blackout of A Noon Interval by James Whitcomb Riley)
Everyday most awaken to a quest acquiring more
Never considering just closing the door
Oddly no matter how many gulps of the juice taken
Uttering that a thirst is quenched would be godforsaken
Genuine gratitude for things that are not purchased fluff
Have a selfless comfort always knowing it's enough
van Gogh’s yellow transmuted — s a p p h i r e
on palette before my irises
faded sunflowers become
black butterflies
F l uttering
on outskirts of red beginnings
from cocoon onto canvas
is it my blue seraphim core
they seek to touch ?
astounded I splotch violets whispering
so they have nectar to quench
birthing thirst_____ white
sinking back into
sapphire SEA
I report to Neptune
all is well ~
_____________________
Unnamed Painting : Suzanne VanBebber
Private : Image Copyright : Oregon : May 26
Silver Winner Poem : Allpoetry.com : May 26
Assessor : Suzanne VanBebber
GOLDEN ATTRACTIONS-:-
refuge
secured
sanctuary
vividly
seized
of CONTINUING NOTIONS
dedicated
visual
impressions
inscribed
drawings
with AESTHETIC CRITERIA
comprehensive
synthetically
articulated
analytical
uttering
My boy,
inscrutable,
mystifying his folks,
a live, moving Mona Lisa -
unknown
Shy one,
timid, withdrawn,
not uttering a peep -
we sure would like to talk to you.
reserved
Pure soul
open, guileless
trusts with an open heart
like a flower in a garden
guilt free
Mild child
patient, peaceful
would not hurt anyone -
if but more of us were like you
kindly
Thinker,
keen observer,
silently noticing,
nothing escapes your watchful eyes
wise one
Nette Onclaud- DROP THE CLICHE
10 Dec. 2025
I sit uttering the common words,
NO GUTS, NO GLORY, but what of me?
What of the bone, the structure,
The planning for the plot?
Why am I denied recognition
For remaining in the background?
I was still here. It was me. Alas,
No guts. No glory
The door was locked forever more
But somehow it found the key
Through evil lies and wickedness
It gained a forced unwanted entry
There I saw the face of Hell
Terrifying as it was
I gave a cry, I gave a yell
In its black and spectral buzz
And standing there from a poisoned well
Uttering sounds of foreign nonsense
In a tongue unknown like a deceiving spell
It moved close to the threshold of my innocence
For years I was haunted by this event
It did though seem forever away gone far
So I became less vigilant
And in un-thinking left the door ajar
Then poisoned gas disguised as perfume
Came flowing in through the crack
A final blow to thoroughly consume
A soul and body in a newly planned attack
I shut the door in its face fast
Locked from the inside
The memories passed through it cast
Into the fires of Hell with nowhere to hide
And the noise of a troubled mind
Was dissolved into a new gained peace
Like lotus flowers reflowering we find
On a Kashmir lake all joy and release
Walking slowly in utter dark wholly stripped and laid bare
Tears running down my face and a tightening in the air
Heart screaming a deafening silent desperate prayer
Carrying the broken pieces of a life full of ware
Abruptly piercing the sea of black was a beam of light
Silhouetting a tall bearded man who was twice my height
Piercing flame-filled yet loving tender eyes burning so bright
The Son of God had appeared before me all dressed in white
Laying the pieces at his feet eyes swelling turning pink
Barely uttering "I'm broken" as I felt my soul shrink
Chuckling the Son of God grabbed all the fragments with a wink
Little one you are not broken this is not what you think
Purposely placing pieces on the floor with flair and glee
Forming a vibrant mosaic of color and of me
Completing his masterpiece he motioned to come and see
With a loving embrace he whispered "Nothing but beauty!"
I said to the class,
"Now the first thing we're going to do, is feed this poem."
& I asked my friends, "Do you want to help me write an Arthurian epic?"
They replied, "Do we?!"
My son is writing a story, with a character called Professor Question-Mark
My daughter believes we're taking a plane somewhere every night
I picked up my children on the last day of their summer camp,
With my son running out the automatic doors uttering, "Let's get out of here."
Hundreds of pounds down the drain
Mad cheddar
Mad stacks of cabbage and
Post traumatic Christmas disorder
In the King's chamber at Windsor Castle
The audioguide informs tourists of its decorative history
Before announcing the bed in question in front of us is not the actual bed
A man groans and walks off
My mum asks me to go check on my dad in the public bathroom
I knock on the cubicle and say, "Dad, are you in there?"
He replies, "Yeah."
We find him at Victoria Square and I realise it wasn't him
There is mad screaming from another carriage on the train
I know we are near our station
Minding his own business we have Tweety Bird
up in his cage not uttering a word
until he tawt he taw a puddy tat!
then Tweety turns into a most clever sinister brat
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
It baffles me...
When you lose your warships
And life puts you in situationships
The mind gets disabled
Leaving you in disorder
Uttering your ability
Turning you into liability
Even when you're without disability
You start depending on others to survive.
It baffles me...
If you choose the matter over mind
Your thoughts and emotions begin to fail you
You'll start questioning or doubting yourself
Forgetting your potentials
You start loosing everything
Your confidence and people
Until you pick your spirit up, which is the mind.
It baffles me...
When you stumble, crumble or fumble
It becomes a trouble
Steadily disrupting your peace of mind
Causing mental bondages
When things don't workout for you
Because you know you're doing your best
Even when you try to find rest
Life steadily throwing you test
Never relent or regret, for it's part of the journey.
her hands
did not turn on light bulbs.
they were light bulbs,
they were clay vessels through which flowed
a light tired from too much godliness.
when she entered the room,
it wasn’t her who entered,
it was a silence that had lost its voice
in a burned temple,
and had come searching for it inside me.
the angel beneath the bed
came out like a healed shadow
and whispered to me:
“Now you can sleep,
your mother’s hands are keeping watch.”
and I,
a child uttering
his first prayer,
looked into my mother’s palms
as if into a holy book,
unknown,
but true.
once,
an old woman from the village told me:
“Women like your mother
do not come into the world, they pour forth,
like light from icons
or like God from a child.”
since then,
when I think of light,
I do not see the sun,
but my mom’s hands
wiping the dust
from the face of the world.
I converse with my demons.
The monologues are endless,
Dark confessions on scraps of macabre memories.
My mouth stays shut after uttering blasphemies,
I terrorize my ghosts with the darkness of my fantasies.
I stumbled before the gates of hell,
It's too late — I'll end up in Lucifer's furnaces.
The journey will be chaotic until the final breath,
No consolation, only incurable wounds in this infernal abyss.
I smile at the angel of death like those fanatics ready to die for a few virgins.
My humanity embraces all the demonic facets of its spark,
Forever at war with a legion of the damned,
A procession of curses on the highway of immortality.
A few impure souls to sacrifice on the altar of repentance,
Pharaoh's blood to cleanse my dignity,
To be a slave for the glory of my oppressors — impossible.
To brandish arms — a saving urgency.
Throw me a banana, and I'll send you straight to the doorstep of my ancestors.
I learned to handle weapons of war in a banana republic.
I'm on alert, like those sleeper agents.
Servitude and submission are forbidden.
I preach peace, justice, and harmony,
But I do not fear the horrors of chaos.
My existence traumatizes my enemies.
Reciting, of the alphabet, not a waste.
I may get an A plus for trying.
I whistled for it, foraging
through its branches. Collaborating
with the Alpha and Omega, searching
for gold - that Atlantis-noun.
Lilac-gold or lavender gold…
“Forget about it,” railed the brain.
“…w, x, y, z,” I sighed.
Up…up…the driveway, uttering
with hysteria, viscera unclenched;
mysterious and victorious release.
“Speak up,” says the brain.
I release my whisper
into the wind, out the window,
“Wisteria…Wisteria…”
My eyes enjoy the vista,
the Spring feast.
The winner of the women’s match,*
An absolute surprise,
Delighted all the fans who know
How hard she always tries.
In forty-nine attempts, she never
Had a Grand Slam win
And posing with her trophy,
She could not contain her grin.
The runner-up, whom everyone,
(Which did include herself)
Expected to go home and add
That trophy to her shelf,
Displayed, for all to see,
A rather nasty fit of pique.
She smashed her racket on the ground
While uttering a shriek.
She said she had to let off steam
And thus was cut some slack,
But as a pro, she should have known
To hold that anger back.
We’re only human, that is true,
Though athletes who compete
Should, in public, hold their heads high
With a win or in defeat.
*Australian Open
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