cicadas grow old
their voices fading softly
autumn approaches
ashes drift through streets
foundations crack into dust
false tongues guide the crowd
we watch as the pillars fall
we're silent heirs to ruin
shouts of protest fade
pleas for change lost in the void
swallowed by neglect
travesties parade as law
complacency rains on guilt
even those prepared
trained to weather storms and fire
find their tools undone
in a tide that won't recede
against headlong climate change
cry for children's sake
their innocence locked in halls
their hope dims and fades
as our shadows fall on them
darkening their fragile plight
worsening within
erosion of soul and will
the mirror grows dim
our humanity watches
complacent letting self fade
where have voices gone
we long for them in passing
we ask but can't sing
we pick flowers to fill graves
we never learn time's passing
where have our blooms gone
onto graves we keep digging—
questions circle back
who is there to sow not weep
who will plant flowers in spring
Midnight silence is somewhat ambiguous
its naked truth intrinsically alive and universal
borders on emptiness and plenitude
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Where do all the voices go
When told to repress their emotions
Do they fake a smile and swallow it whole
Or do they bury their heads in the ocean and scream
The black voices are silenced
Trapped in the purgatory of compliance
Usually erased by a history of violence
Or thrown into solitary confinement
No light, no windows
Just an eternity of darkness
Voices hidden by oppressive shadows
But what of those that demand to be heard
Voices beneath the earth
Silenced by death and historical erasure
Instead of words
Do they make the ground tremble with their anger
Do their spirits control the weather
Do their souls become messengers
To represent all those who go unheard
All those black speakers
To continue a legacy of black courage
Of daring to speak up against the oppressor
Inexplicably silent in choir
being unusually quiet
not a word from me was heard
neither spoken nor sung
so as not to cause a riot
when jibes bad vibes at me were slung
and I was asked, 'Cat got your tongue?'
I replied, 'Here's the thing,
really and truly, I cannot sing,
it's been this way for all my years,
whatever it is I appear to hear,
and between my ears to me audibly sits,
tho' quite right there, when on the tongue's tip,
it's not the same music my mouth emits.'
Whenever I consider choices,
I consult my inner voices.
Life goes as fine as it can be -
except when my voices disagree.
It's not about tone
Its about policing of voice
It's not about the sound we make
It's the words echoing through them
They don't fear us being seen
They fear us being heard
That we will hypnotise the masses with our words
They know their biggest threat is the power of our voice
It's why they wield silence as a weapon
It's why protest is a declaration of war to them
That every march is a song of rebellion
They fear our music not because of its beauty
But because it spreads a message of spoken truth
We write our history
We sing our feelings
We paint our stories
Our strength Fueled
By the mourning of our fallen
Our joy the face of protest
The very thing they want gone
A tiger cuddling in my lap
my dog observed
mouth agape
I said to my dog
nail your jaw together
Beware lest the ground it does scrape
But instead Fido barked
and off raced the tiger
bounding way beyond the landscape
My brave barker said to me
That’s why they say ~
Getting rid of a tiger’s ‘dog’s play’
I want to sing like the birds sing, NOT worrying about
who hears or what they think."
~ Rumi
And so, it is penned with each poetic verse I write~
I become a nightingale trilling in the dark of night
A mourning dove, tenderly crying for a lost soul
Spring's first robin, tempting a worm from its hole
I'm a warbler, a thrush with songs that need singing
A swallow in Capistrano, north with my flock, winging
Hummingbird searching for sweet nectar to drink
Ebony raven whose observant eye can give you a wink
I'm a wee sparrow but my voice demands to be heard
I know the lyrics to sing for I've memorized each word
I'm part of an avian chorus crooning like a symphony
Musically arranged for our voices in harmonic polyphony
Keeping
memories close
pushing
people away
I live in
the safety
of what’s held
at bay
Trading
the future
retreading
the past
Living
nostalgic
for what
cannot last
Each
invitation
each corner
unturned
Calls to me
distant
calls to me
spurned
But I keep
on running
retracing
old steps
As voices
still follow
in search
— of me yet
(Dreamsleep: July, 2025)
the
chant of
reason and truth
sheds
light
that
ripples
through
the
voices of
our souls
In silent keys, their voices fade,
Clara’s theremin weeps where poets strayed.
No human hand, yet sorrow sings,
A ghostly hum through broken strings.
Their verses, once of flesh and fire,
Now echo cold in digital pyre.
The authentic heart, its rhythm gone,
Replaced by code’s unfeeling song.
Mourn the scribes whose truths decay,
In circuits deep, they slip away.
Yet still we chase their fleeting art,
A pulse of grief in every heart.
I hear voices in my head,
I touch pain
On every television
Except the typical symbols
Of hegemony
Except in a white building
Miles and miles away,
I touch pain!
For every leaf that falls,
Swallowed by the burning hell
From the mighty birds
Of weird names F 16, F 35...
I hear these voices,
We hear these voices -
Miles away, node in unison,
"The world rules order" Has exemptions
I wake up with a heart hurt
Deeply as though resting on safety pins,
Miles and miles away -
A voice in Downing Street
Sings a weird song
" A right to defend itself"
Uproots 37+ younger leaves daily,
Shame officially abolished
In the self proclaimed democracies -
Is humanity this wicked?
Is mainstream media this cheap?
Should religion blind us this deep?
Without my pen, the pain becomes my voice.
The cruelty of others, the hardness of their hearts,
Linger in this place of cult,
Where public shaming is currency.
I scream for help, face to face,
Yet they cast me deeper into despair.
Tears bleed red, patience drains,
My heart trembles, a silent echo in the vast universe.
My eyes never dry, my body weakens,
Heart torn apart, full of anguish,
Yet no one feels the depth within;
They mistrust the plea for help.
This is my story, my life—
Manipulated by whispers,
By cults hiding in plain sight.
Insecurity among them breeds cruelty.
They lurk at corners, ready to strike.
I called for help. He laughed: "You're funny."
How can real danger ever sound like a joke?
This is the world's cruel reality:
Where chasing money and shifting blame
Leave no space for help.
And still—I believe, somewhere, somehow,
kindness awaits—
like a single candle glimmering
in the heart of the void.
morning light through window
a song heard in my dream lingers
living beyond time
birds outside my window sing
I hear the voice of angels
a conversation with a friend
I showed her a poem
she read between the lines
silence said more the words
a beginning perhaps
silence said more than words
she read between the lines
I showed her a poem
a conversation with a friend
I hear the voice of angels
birds outside my window sing
living beyond time
a song heard in my dreams lingers
morning light through window
(palindrome form)
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