Morning slips in sideways.
Moonbeam dips a cotton shirt
into a bowl of dyes~
colors blooming outward
like shy creatures
learning their names.
She lifts the fabric.
Droplets fall in bright plinks,
each one a tiny skipping stone
across the warmth of July.
On the clothesline,
the tie-dyed shirt sways~
a small carnival of swirl and hush,
its spiral turning slowly
as if practicing
for some future miracle.
Moonbeam hums.
Not a song~
more like a friendly spell
to coax the colors
into behaving.
They don’t.
A streak of green wiggles free
and settles into a shape
that looks suspiciously
like mischief.
Wind arrives,
ruffling the hem
with the politeness
of a guest who knows
it’s early.
The shirt answers
with a soft flutter~
a tiny applause.
By afternoon,
the spiral tightens,
gathers itself,
and glows faintly
as if July tucked
a secret inside it.
Moonbeam takes it down,
presses the warm cotton
to her cheek,
and laughs.
Then she slips it on,
and the swirl settles
against her like a tame comet
choosing a shoulder
to rest on.
A butterfly I chanced to spy.
In all its magical whimsy,
I watched it feed, flutter and fly.
A butterfly I chanced to spy,
sipping flower petals near by.
In colors bold, bright, and fancy,
a butterfly I chanced to spy.
In all its magical whimsy!
How many flowers is Whimsy wearing today?
This was said in a cheerful way, merry and gay.
I have no idea, but she looks pretty of course.
This was agreed upon by the sheep and the horse.
Whimsy was the pet of the barnyard, friend to all.
They loved her happy disposition, she lived in one stall.
The livestock kept her safe, the cow fed her fresh milk.
Today she was garbed in a plethora of flowers, most of them silk.
A thousand simple things make me smile...
The sleeping form of a precious newborn,
A child's drawing in his own artistic style,
Pastel shades of the sky in the early morn,
Fairytales written about a magical unicorn.
I am amused by hair with corkscrew curls
on heads of adorable little, giggling girls.
By puppies tripping over their own feet,
Watching moonlight's glow as night unfurls,
And a surprise kiss that's incredibly sweet.
Someone falling should never make me laugh,
But quickly, I'm chuckling out of control
Then sincerely apologize for my social gaffe.
I wildly cheer when my team scores a goal.
I've heard that 'Laughter is good for the soul.'
In a spontaneous moment of outdoor fun,
I've jumped into a deep snowdrift at full run,
I find great pleasure in setting myself free
to share the taste of cotton candy, finespun...
Life is sweet when I make no excuse for being me
**********
The turtle sighed,
"You're going to take too long, aren't you?"
He slandered—yet, not exactly a lie—
The sloths eyes slowly began peer into the distance
As it gathered thought to forge reply
The turtle died
The sloth eyes slowly grew wide—
Not again;
Another friend,
Inhaling deep to sigh
One Couple Of Days Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
Contest Judged: 10/29/2025 5:12:00 AM
( 2nd Place )
Written: October 8, 2025
One couple of days, the moon wore a hat,
and chairs went for walks with a cat in a spat.
They danced on the rooftops, they sang with a spoon,
while clocks told the tales of a flying raccoon.
Umbrellas drank tea in the middle of June,
and spoons held a meeting to debate with a tune.
A jellybean king rode a unicycle fast,
through spaghetti-filled rivers that ran to the past.
Divine must meet whimsy before magic happens
AP: 2nd place 2025
Humour is not always fun
Sometimes it’s out of place
But when it strikes it could just put
A smile upon your face.
While walking barefoot on the sand
And contemplating woe,
The muse of humour happened by
And this I did compose:
I am a small and tiny toe
And of the colour pink
I complement my foot so well -
Just love to walk in sync.
I am a large and funny bone
I do my best to charm
And with my bendy sense of fun
My humour can disarm.
I am a nose, a nosy thing
I lead us here and there
Smelling smoke from far-off fires
Just watch my nostrils flare.
Three verses will suffice for now
My muse she has grown tired
I've run out of all body parts
That seem to be inspired.
Have I gained from making up
Some humour in this way?
I have not thought of woe at all,
That’s all that I can say.
THREADS OF WHIMSEY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
threads of whimsy doth
weave
the fabric of today
while
time twists the yarns of
yesterday
on smooth hot rock I sat in reverie
after a hallucinogenic drink of
mushroom, poppies and truffle
imagination soared like bald eagle
throwing twin twigs with sigh
up I flew landing on a rainbow in
lucid dream ~
saw tinker bell fairies in pastel lace
with mauve daisy hats to face
sucking honeyed cream in wild glee
cherubs singing whimsy chorals
skipped to amethyst abode awaiting
dragonflies lighted a willow way
swans mated on water lily bay, say !
petal pond elves smiling away
secretly inside a Crystal Palace
of chanting High Priestesses pure
sat Lord-Lady of visualisations
with blue-green eyes, beard of silver
hay, not all could wander this way
he fed me mango manna ambrosia
gifted a garland of lotus snow white
a sapphire pen dripping indigo ink
to serpentine scribe enchanting
song on a rainbow in ruby
slink-slink !
I called to the monkey who wore a pinstriped suit,
Found out the giraffe and hippo are mute.
Saw a man stare at a lemur 'til dark,
Like he was waiting for some kind of spark.
The leaves fell from trees, an impressive display,
So I waved my arms like I made it that way.
A woman made comment to me, "Don’t be silly,"
As a flamingo tapped by, all dressed up and frilly.
Sun-bear, lions, and kangaroo too,
A gorilla looked like he had nothing to do.
Sunning themselves, no care in the world,
While a shoebill gave my head quite the whirl.
A man with some popcorn meant for a snack,
Tossed some to pigeons—who launched an attack!
He zigzagged away, arms flailing in dread,
Yelling, “They pooped on my head!” as he fled.
A grandma danced by the penguin parade,
Imitating the shuffle those little ones made.
They watched for a moment, then gave her a glance,
And waddled behind her to join in the dance.
I stretched with a yawn, gave one last glance,
At flamingos mid-strut and a penguin dance.
With a heart full of wonder and shoes full of dirt,
I left the zoo grinning, my cheeks kinda hurt
"A spoonful of fantasy is often the best medicine for reality." - CayCay
Life bounces my emotions around at its whimsy.
On many a day, a reverie is a savior to me.
Relief awaits inside the fondling of a good fantasy.
My imagination travels mind breezes easily
to unravel my dark in a visualization spree.
Sometimes I cannot force my face to even fake smile,
cannot elevate emotions above my bleak stockpile,
or take depression out of my character profile.
Escaping through my imagination's creative style
may lead to a dream worthy of keeping on speed dial.
is it just my Imagination
running wild or maybe
it is a weird Hallucination
I’m lost in my Reverie
as I Dream of you and me
together, or is it just Whimsy
on my part that you would
find me to be your soul mate
I spend a lot of my waking hours
practicing Visualization of us as a couple
"Sometimes the softest dreams unravel into ash."
My mind walks landscapes made of ash,
where stars collapse in whimsy’s flash.
I reach for light, but it turns to dust—
a mirror cracking from broken trust.
A hallucination holds my hand
and leads me through this haunted land.
Here, love once bloomed in endless spring,
now silence grows in everything.
The bones of joy lie at my feet,
while reverie weeps down the street.
I build my hope with shattered clay,
a dream that fades at break of day.
My imagination carves the sky—
with wings no real bird learns to fly.
Visualization paints a place
where I exist without a face.
Fantasy kissed me in the dark,
then vanished—
like the last cold spark.
Every poem paints a picture
worth a thousand words
or so I've heard
and a little whimsy
goes a long way
it can even make your day
yet if I may have my say
not to laugh occasionally
once in a while
would be a tragedy
so let me see you smile
and to make a long story short
as I have often thought
if brevity be the soul of wit
levity
the key to longevity
is the humour in it
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