There’s a quiet heart upon the wall
that breaks the day in equal parts,
blind to the heavy tears that fall,
and careless of our weary hearts.
It treats a life like one quick breath,
counting the hours, cold and gray—
a gear that grinds away our breath,
where every second slips away.
And yet... time bends when passion burns,
and minutes stretch to touch the sky;
a single look, where longing turns,
can make a decade pass us by.
For all those weeks spent on routine
fade out like smoke in morning air,
while depth reclaims what life can mean,
and stays with us when we are there.
A clock measures duration, but depth counts time.
A quiet shadow falls across the floor,
Where solitude keeps watch beside the door.
The world moves on in steady, distant grace,
While time stands still within this empty space.
A deep desire lingers in the chest,
To hear the echo of a welcome song,
Yet cut away from all the humming rest,
We wander blindly where we don't belong.
The windowpane is frosted cold and dim,
As shadows lengthen on the outer rim.
We sit apart, introspective and deep,
Guarding the secrets that the quiet keep.
So vulnerable, exposed to sudden harm,
Reaching in vain for any gentle arm,
Until the silence claims its final toll—
A deep isolation that engulfs the soul.
Yet still a quiet yearning lingers best:
An aching hunger for connection, peace, and rest.
At five years, what matters fits within one hand—
A beetle, a stone, a fistful of warm, soft sand.
Five fingers close around each thing that's new;
What matters is what a little hand, can hold as true.
At fifteen, what matters is the watching crowd.
To be yourself, but not too different, odd or loud.
The crowd's glances matter, weighing who they see.
Their recognition shapes who you might want to be.
At thirty, what matters gathers into something more.
More keys, more names, more feet across the floor.
Fingers grip the proof of what they've built and own;
What matters is the weight, the way they have grown.
At fifty, what matters turns from having more, to needing less.
From what is treasured, to what's measured in tenderness.
The fingers loosen their grip on what they used to hold.
An open hand held out to greet, outweighs the fist of gold.
At seventy, what matters circles back to five.
The smallest things again, feel the most alive.
Old fingers touch the morning's silver dew—
A reaching hand seeks to feel, to touch, and renew.
Every gosh darn morning I draw water from the well
Not having indoor plumbing has proven to be hell
If ever I find a way to afford it, that would be swell
I'm annoyed with carrying the buckets. Can you tell?
Lowering the thing is easy because it's so light
I'm chilly on Winter morns, even when the sun is bright
It's been the main reason for many a marital fight
Especially if more water is needed during the night
The hubs declared that it should be woman's work
His chauvinistic attitude shows that he's a jerk
He's a bit lazy at chores, and finds reasons to shirk
Sometimes he makes me so mad that I go berserk!
Usually, I can't carry the water without making a splash
He said he would do it for me... if I paid him in cash
His relentless sarcasm is nothing more than balderdash!
The rudeness is so irritating that he's given me a rash!
I plunge in the water,
After my cousin pushed me.
The cold is biting through my bones.
I flap my arms and legs,
Trying to get used to the temperature.
But, I can’t swim.
There are weights attached to my feet,
Pulling me under the water.
I’m being pulled down by my thoughts that are too heavy to hold.
I try to stay up, and feel the raindrops start,
Piercing my skin as if they were needles.
The water swallows me, whole.
I’m trying to get up, but the current is too strong.
I look up, and see the world just as bright above me, untouched,
while I drift into the quiet, dark ocean.
Water fills up my lungs faster than it should,
And I am sinking too fast.
The light fades into a blur,
and the ocean keeps me.
Santa’s weight loss was ridiculous at best
He was always exercising and taking a weight test
He got so skinny, no one recognized him
Mrs. Claus ran away with someone not so slim.
Santa could not stop, once his weight was down.
“Want a cookie?” brought an evil frown.
He got grouchy and mean, and his blood got thin.
His weight loss was definitely not a win.
That summer weight of a bibliophile,
my reading list has been growing a while.
Waiting for the backdrop of the ocean
to hurriedly crack open a new one.
Stuff your beach bag fill up your E-reader
Summer is here the weather is warmer.
It’s finally time to lighten the load,
with all the excitement I might explode.
A new author a new world to explore,
I soak it up and get hungry for more.
Riding shotgun down a fictitious road
I studied a law that became the code.
With every lesson making me stronger
the next chapter just needs to get longer.
So hard to beat such solitary fun,
that never needs an okay from someone.
Scarfing it all up I’m so full meanwhile
I lose the weight of a bibliophile.
Why are we are so desperate to ‘lose that weight’
Are we after health, or are we just vain
We all know the answer to the question above
Surely loss of weight equates with love
I can feel the weight of time pressing down
as it slowly crushes my inner child.
And I realized, watching my dreams drown,
that I've been treading water for a while.
Time's aged my body, yet nourished my soul;
trading fractured memories for my youth.
And bypassed life's red tape and rigmarole,
forcing me to discover my own truth.
I see a world that I've not seen before,
as if I suddenly turned on a light.
And I hear folks calling for a world war,
arming bigotry and hate for a fight.
I'm at an age where I'm thankful life ends,
for I’m fast running out of hope, and friends.
Life had dealt him a rotten hand.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
The things left unsaid
grow heavier through the years,
gathering below
like silt in a riverbed
fills in the refection pool.
Snowball, small at first,
gathers more snow as it rolls.
snowman's tiny nose,
becomes head, then a body,
then a roaring avalanche.
Regrets germinate
as roots grow into the soul
become embedded.
what was 'too few to mention'
is now 'too much to ignore'
Hand touches lightly
then tightens for better grip,
as the wanting grows.
the weight becomes the burden
that is so hard to let go.
Fingers on the ledge
numb and trembling from the strain,
grow inflexible
letting go is now so hard
after all the holding on.
I never really got to be someone you didn’t see
And I never really got to be someone you didn’t need constantly
Do you know how exhausting that really can be
To not be a want but a need.
she is bragging about all the weight she has lost
I am stunned because she looks pretty corpulent
we are at a Fat Ladies of America meeting.
I lost six pounds this week she says.
There is polite clapping.
It is my first time here.
I want to be supportive
I whistle and hoot and clap and cheer.
“And I gained twelve pounds,” She continues.
So, this is how this game is played?
I am clairaudient; I hear spirit
Usually a man, but sometimes I cannot tell
I have never heard a woman
Being clairvoyant, I sense my mother-in-law though
She can operate like a poltergeist
slamming the kitchen cupboards to make a point
My husband and I both heard her do that once.
“It’s my mother,” he told me.
If he had not said that I would not have known who it was.
My blood stopped running at the time.
I thought an intruder was in the house.
“She did not like my tone with you,” he told me.
His mother always loved me the best.
What happens to those emotions
that suddenly lose their way?
That was meant to be
but disappeared abruptly
by the decision taken by one!
What happens to those feelings?
Okay, the one who is not changed
tries to get back, tries to resolve,
shouts, cries, or writes poetry!
But what do the others do who take this abrupt decision?
How can they just put an end suddenly
and start not to feel those emotions from the next day?
What do they do with those emotions?
Or while leaving they gifted their own emotional baggage to the one who left behind?
and that's why the one who stays
feels heavier than before,
that they can't raise their head
and spend months just doing nothing,
confining own in a room and lying in bed
neither like a corpse, nor alive, rather half dead.
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