We live
on the edge
between fact
and uncertainty
The ground
at our feet
always changing
with time
The crack
ever widens
in theory
and myth
Rewriting
our history
in memory
— unrhymed
(Dreamsleep: September, 2026)
A door opens into night.
Sky close.
A seam of brightness.
A staircase rises~
steps lit from within,
quiet as held breath.
I climb.
Below me, the world loosens.
Above me, patterns shift.
Light drifts across my shoulders.
Old moments flicker
in the glow of each step.
At the landing:
starlight spreads thin,
a horizon waiting.
I stand.
The quiet widens.
The path upward speaks
without sound.
This is a decima poem. A décima poem is a ten-line stanza with eight syllables per line, typically following the rhyme scheme ABBAACCDDC. This poetic form is popular in Latin America and often deals with various themes, including philosophical, political, and humorous subjects. (Source: Wikipedia.com)
I sense a presence drawing near
beyond the reach of mortal sight;
it moves through assemblies of light
that softens edges of my fear.
It brightens what I hold most dear—
a vastness widening my view,
a clarity that feels quite true,
a depth that widens what I see,
a grace that listens to my plea,
and keeps my spirit rising new.
More often, her soul widens
farther than breaths of a moon...
and through irreverent eyes,
she saunters into the ledge of woods
past time's curfew and nobility --
a wanton stroll by this sylph
daring the commoness of old rules--
Twirling along pebbles and sand,
kindling night's liniment glorious
like the flared climb of dusk,
her wildfire spews a wanton blaze ----
fearless like some insolent woman
rising from mediocrity, burning oil
while dragonflies sleep in a lull ;
her navel radiant in the flickering,
feathering night with such
stubborn will...a maverick defying
traditional anthems of her nun's school.
Yet, this flared essence turns into warmth
as she tenderly flushes my fears at night
to hold the moon soft blue
while her arms delight in classic tunes,
cleansing my tears with hums
of ardor...and wings spread on
hope's ride divinely beaming with grace:
Mother.
Mama- light tenderly cuddles me;
each sky, each ream of grass
healing my rough, young adult soul...
brown seaweed marches
corrupting sweet ocean hue
sargassum cesspools
the rooms grow smaller
quieter
after every departure
clicks the latch
they're built to keep
weather out
not harbor grudges
that echoes leave behind
forks, vases, plates and pens
settle into their places,
as though, they're expected
the yellow walls
once held afternoon teas,
until the laughter
sealed the paint
and screened the light
the banister
smooths its touch
before any hand
remembers its feel
the curtains
lift their seams
peering underneath
themselves
the stairs
borrow sunlight
for the tread of feet
the kettle
answers itself
in a kerfuffle
chorus of steam
the floorboards
clear their throats
one board
too soon
the hallway
widens for every
shadow
still waiting
outside
every afternoon
rehearses mornings
one curtain call
at a time
the dust learns
the shape
of fingertips
the chairs
lean much closer in
to listen
the doormat
combs its
greeting nap
every echo
tries on
a different voice
as the house
leaves
the door
ajar
for no one
She turns the radio dial with tired hands,
chasing a voice through the crackling dark.
Every station fractures into static,
a snowstorm of sound that won’t let her in.
She leans closer, as if breath alone
could coax meaning from the broken hum.
The world feels distant, unreachable~
just her and the staticky hiss of unfinished thoughts.
Then softly~
a thread of music slips through the noise,
thin as a pulse returning after silence,
a single note glowing like a lantern
held out by someone who somehow knows her name.
She stills herself, listening,
the melody rising, warm and unafraid.
something in her chest loosens~
a knot she’d carried so long
she’d forgotten it was there.
The song widens,
filling the room with a light she can’t see
but feels, unmistakably,
like hands lifting the weight she never spoke of.
She closes her eyes.
The static falls away.
The music moves through her
like a truth she’d been waiting to remember~
a quiet, holy clarity
that finds her exactly where she is
and asks nothing
except that she let it stay.
A thin seam of light appears
where the world has worn thin.
I step closer,
feeling the hush gather around me.
Nothing opens outward~
instead, the doorway widens within,
a soft unfastening of fear,
a loosening of the old, tight self.
And through that inner brightness,
I finally see what has been waiting.
A line divides the bed they share
a line, invisible, but there.
Between the North, South East, or West
who knows which side now offers rest?
Post-angered words it widens so
a space where unspent feelings flow
and neither dares encroach this place
with cautious touch or first embrace.
The line did not exist at first
when then their tangled limbs traversed
the bed at any angle known;
no part of it they claimed to own.
Now he lies left, and she lies right
the border crossed by some invite;
and neither knows the reason why
some nights allow, and some deny.
A line divides the bed they share
a line, invisible, but there.
One joyful footstep
loosens procrastination
morning air tastes sweet
the mind keeps that light aglow
long after the walk has passed
Pleasure leaves a trace
on shoes waiting by the door
soft invitations
before thought can intervene
habit heeds motion's call
Inner loops turning—
unconscious desires take root
deep beneath reason
each fond spark of exercise
trains the nerves to yearn return
Laughter after strain
widens the spirit's landscape
breath steadies the mind
small victories slowly build
through patience and resilience
Outer loops rising
gather strength from calm delight
builds hope through movement
each glad act enlarges life
as wellness echoes health back
No harsh discipline—
only the pull of feelings
gently repeated
what once needed force and will
becomes enlightened desire
light
stirs
softly,
gathers grace,
soft as first morning,
a hush that widens through the heart,
reminding me that God begins His work in whispers
grief, a solitary room
walls drawn in close against self—
dim quiet withheld
each breath sounding too loudly
in hollow hush of absence
the room starts to stretch
doorways open still unseen—
corridors seep loss
footsteps outside stroll beside
the room with sole grief inside
outside, the landscape
widens under muted skies
others move through it
their shadows criss-cross the line
collecting recognition
air thickens when shared
to drift and carry between
each fragile meeting—
to the weather we move in
slowly, learning how to breathe
what felt set apart
softens within the landscape
drifting through thin walls
silence now inhabited
by more than one heart beating
We’ve reached a point,
As in 1861, when America
Is a nation divided,
But unlike then
It’s unlikely the current state
Of rebellion and silent coup
Will spill into a larger
Outright civil war
Mostly because it’s not a battle line
Drawn on geography
But instead on ideology,
And those ideologies aren’t about to change.
If anything the divide just widens
And solidifies with each passing year.
The effect is cultural apartheid
Separate media, schools, sports and entertainment
With of course, the resulting separate histories
To be lived and told
In separate lives and libraries
Until we live in a single united states
In name only.
(2/10/26)
As each of our daily pathways
Which back home do lead
Darkens, so widens
Night"s abyss.
No more fearful these fall into
Knowing they're so bound
For sleep what's real for
Dream life's bliss.
The bright, innocent liveliness of knowledge
with the gentle flexibility of tender wisdom,
it would be good to hang them
on one narrow corner of an apple tree.
Knowledge, flapping about without much sense, wakes naïve wisdom,
and steady wisdom, in turn, widens the generosity of knowledge.
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