Were Poems

If Trump were to croak, say, by choking on a slice of papaya

If Trump were to croak, say, by choking on a slice of papaya, 
how long before his ilk would see it as a heavenly sign and run it by a 
biblical scholar who would then be given the imperative 
to scour the Bible to come up with a plausible narrative 
to prove that Trump's death

you were almost my savior

i'm at the bottom of the ocean
forty feet down
stones tied to my feet
trapped
i'm drowning
air in my lungs
can't breathe
suffocating
vision going black
i feel you
your hands grab me
pulling my up
saving me
thirty feet down
there's hope
a sliver of it
i'm almost gone but
maybe we'll make it in time
twenty feet down
you're still holding on tightly
i trust you now
you'll bring me to the

IF THERE WERE NO POETS

The world would drown in chaos
men devouring the scalps of men
where vices crown themselves as kings
and virtue fades into dust.

If there were no poets
faith would be stripped of breath
a story told by scholars only
no Bible, no Torah, no Quran.

It is the poet who shapes the world
not with laws of gravity or motion
but with tender reins

Thought you were so clever

You gave the perfect alibi
Swept your dirty laundry under the mat
Fooled everyone ~ everyone but me



Wordku: 5-7-5 words

AP: 1st place 2025

Did We Exist Before We Were Born

Did I exist before I came—
To Time’s reluctant Door—
Or was I but a voiceless Name—
In Silence—evermore?

The cradle of a Nothing vast—
Where neither Breath nor Form—
No Heart to quicken—nor to fast—
No Memory—to warm.

Yet here—I stand—amid the Grass—
The Moon—observes my stay—
She lifts her Lantern as I pass—
And will—when I—decay.

If Death returns me to that Place—
That hollow, unbegun—
I

If only you were

That summer night air forgot to
breathe, I forgot something too.
Not sure what, but I remember:

a star landed in the curved moon
—I saw it in the reflection
of my steaming apple tea

I remember wanting to
tell you, I witnessed a celestial love:
A lone star found her place
rested in the crescent’s embrace
I thought you’d love the story, a love
defying

But as the days of Noah were Matthew 24:37-39

"But as the days of Noah were, so shall the coming of the Son of Man be.
"For as in the days before the flood, they were eating and drinking, marrying
and be given in marriage, until the days that Noah entered the ark, 
(Gen. 7:1,7 cross ref) "and did not know until the flood came and

Dreams were lost

This is the moment; 
Those dreams were lost! 
These yearning hearts are faraway! 
To skip the worries that we chat freely; 
But in this hurried world, it's all forgotten. 

A photograph, 
A faded hue, 
A whisper that I sent to you. 

The air is cold, 
a hollow space, 
where echoes of your laughter
Chase The fleeting

Once we were Seven

Once we were Seven
Once we were seven now only one
Six gone before me
Now I’m alone
No one to reminisce with
Questions left to myself
Childhood memories but no one to share 
They left me each of them, one by one
 And with each passing
Came sadness and tears
Charlotte was first
We were closest in age
She teased and  tormented me

It Sounded Like You Were Trying To Evict The Words From Their Home On Your Tongue

I have been watering it for months—
the small black bulb in the cupboard
that I never let touch sunlight.
It swelled in the dark,
fed on steam from my cooking breath,
fat with the whispers I never spoke aloud.

I told myself it was only a seed,
a pebble in soil, nothing more.
I would open the door,
look at it once, and

If I were a poem

If I were a poem
metaphoric words would dance in
synchronicity,
similes would waltz the frown 
from off my face.
If I were a poem
I'd wrap sonnets around you,
Like tourniquet stanzas 
healing chapters in verse.


If I were a poem
cliches would clash with
unwritten rules,
words would not rhyme and dear diary would not exist.
If I were a poem
gone would be the

If life were a book, I'd hesitate to touch it

If life were a book, I'd hesitate to touch it,
Standing on the edge of the shelf, fearing to discover,
That the story is written in tears and deep shadows,
I'd burn the pages with a match of extinguished memories.
But fire doesn't erase, it only turns to ash,
And the desire to read on is like a curse,
For this

And Then There Were None - For Agatha Christie

I’ve only desired to light old lamps with young wicks
(the tongues of flame must be blinking hard with vigilance)
Across dark, mildewed alcoves that smell of ink —her writing ink —
But one thing led to the other, and the ink I
Found froze in my eyes, the bottle instantly petrified among desert ruins.
I searched, from my village

If I were to,

Lock ruby ridden doors for roach ridden floors bleed without grace 
Roused rounded wounds throughout nightly escapes
And gaping fields of endless escapades
And gaping seas my moses blade has wrenched to dictate.

Pace rotting church floors, so I merry-may await god to knock upon my door alike a loving mother
His guilty spires to sing and relapse my

Before You Were Born

There must be 
an entry point
somewhere in the fabric 
of being, perhaps 
an unhealed 
wound in the bark 
of an ancient tree 
deep in a primordial 
forest or gouged 
in the cliff face
of a remote shoreline 
where southern ocean 
gales pound the continent, 
or somewhere quiet, 
unobtrusive, hidden 
from view in a corner 
of the

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