white wing wobbles fast
on windowpane it bumps
childhood dreams take flight
I have watched the ocean beneath speckled sky;
An infinite expanse that wobbles and turns.
Seen seagulls in gyrating motion flying high,
when in whirling eddies and currents, water churns
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tiny carapace scavenger—borrowed home wobbles
across tidal gossip, the ocean's leftover breath.
One claw dips into a vanishing puddle, testing
the myth of endless retreat. The tide writes,
then rewrites, its invitation in evening sand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With acorn caps for tiny skates,
he wobbles out where the lake awaits.
A twig for a rod, a shoelace line,
and dreams of rainbow trout so fine.
The fish below just blink and stare~
who hooked a nut in midwinter air?
He tugs, he slips, he flips, he flops...
then plop—the ice cracks. Dinner drops.
Now back ashore, tail soaked and sore,
he vows to fish... just one time more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
moonlit windowpane~
my reflection blurs
with falling rain.
empty teacup spins,
wobbles, stops~
silence loud enough
to echo.
Through Smoke and Laughter, Thanksgiving Holds
By Alan J Winters
The oven groans, the timer fails,
the turkey smolders, smoke prevails.
Children cough, the dog runs wild,
chaos reigns, yet spirits smile.
The table wobbles, a leg gives way,
gravy spills in a tidal spray.
Uncle trips on the welcome mat,
still insists, “It’s perfect imagine that!”
Through burned pies and forgotten rolls,
we stitch together fractured wholes.
Candles flicker, power dies,
yet stories rise where silence lies.
Grandma hums an old refrain,
her voice a lantern through the rain.
We pass the plates, we share the bread,
tradition lives in what is said.
For every mishap, every fall,
the feast is not the food at all.
It’s hands that reach, it’s hearts that mend,
it’s gathering close when troubles bend.
So let the turkey char and crack,
we’ll laugh, we’ll love, we’ll circle back.
Through smoke and laughter, tears and song,
Thanksgiving keeps us holds us strong.
"Pacific is the heart of the earth, beating in timeless rhythm- a silent witness to humanity's ebb and flow, holding the key of preservation and devastation"- ~~By Poet
Pacific stretches vast and wide,
the largest and deepest water expanse,
girdling continents, lying with a calm obtuse
but has tales of storms and mishaps to tell.
It twirls around its caverns, holding mysteries
that none has ever explored or fathomed.
Invisible to eyes, from all probing estranged,
she hides secrets like a woman abused.
The great Barrier Reef is home to an array
of live forms, housing oldest coral formations,
in shapes of varied quizzical patterns-
a great maestro’s fine masonry.
Marvel of marvels is this mass of churning white
where pulsing waves dash and crash on sea strands
with tiny droplets grown into trillions,
an infinite mass that wobbles and churns.
Safely cradling myriad live forms in her arms,
she sings a dulcet lullaby in timeless mirth-
the same heard by generations through years,
resonant till eternity.
On a shelf:
A plastic skull inkwell,
the shell of a large land snail,
a thin obelisk of mallow melt.
A jar with a kidney stone in it.
One Hawaiian Hula dancer that wobbles
when touched inappropriately.
An old manual typewriter.
If this motley clutter were
an old map of my life
then my head would be an empty ink well,
a place for a homeless snail,
a wax candle that drips time.
A victim of stone pegs in round holes,
a molester of dancing indigenous women,
47 stiff keys that can no longer unlock
the mystery of ‘qwerty’.
I'm not your priority,
Nor do I care.
I've learnt my place, it's certainly not fair.
The Flower dares to strive
but dreams to grow,
but she doesn't know she needs more
than the Moon's faint silver glow.
Her petals begin to shrivel, wrinkle and drop.
She was no longer able to look up to the treetops.
Her sight became twisted and slim,
For her flower petals drain of
her sweet colour.
She yerned and regretted rejecting the
warmth and the light,
As the Moon only had to offer the night.
It's shadows casted stripping her bare,
But she was to blame as the dweller.
A lesson tought well as she wobbles and stumbles.
For a Flower who dares to strive with only
a moon will not thrive.
a bobble hat fellow rumbles along
sharp turns behind me - hello -
but reaches up to the wall
grabs an apple 80 percent intact
and hobbles away again
a few seconds later he's back again
turns behind me, bends low
and picks up the soggy, abandoned
box of donuts
two inside remaining
successful mission
he wobbles away
“This is a familiar route and one of the most common ones (at least to my seasoned eyes; you may find it beautiful)” — overheard.
______
A day like any other,
but also
a day like no other—
She’s losing the threads again.
No—she’s finally starting to see.
—A day like any other.
The bus hustled over
cracked cement in damp air—
a sight scorched
to the back of my skull.
I sat in my window seat
like it’s a
reflex—
a voice nudges me in the ribs
break something— it said
—anything,
just stopping sitting here.
I switched sides
before my brain can question
if it makes sense.
I let my eyes drink out
the other window—
A smidge of red—a balloon.
Something navy—a child’s backpack.
A birdless branch wobbles—
My gaze drifts up,
the sun reply with dazzles—
For a second,
everything rhymed.
I could hand you the bottle,
tip it slow, let the cheap red river
burn down your throat—
but I can't make you feel it.
I could drop you in a dim-lit room,
where the fan wobbles and the radio wheezes
some dead man's blues—
but I can't make you hear it.
I could carve the hunger into your ribs,
make you watch the world walk by
with full pockets and easy hands—
but I can't make you taste it.
I could lay down the cards,
deal the losses, stack the nights
like empty beer cans—
but I can't make you know it.
On an alive tree, leaves are fit
Fit for its sap is well running
Running to nurse its branches and leaves
On an alive tree, leaves breathe and dance well
Well! The wind wobbles them but cannot fall down
Down they panic to sit boringly at the foot of the tree
On an alive tree, leaves’ life is in abundance
Abundance, however, does not bring joy
Joy pests, hard sun and hail can threaten
On an alive tree, some leaves are yellowishing
Yellowishing in the evening and end up falling
Falling while birds are singing goodbye to the day
On an alive tree, some leaves think they will never dwindle
Dwindle and dry off as they’ve matured
Matured, we weaken in dry season
Such is a person in abundance
Laughing at poor individuals, forgetting that
You and I are born to face challenges, suffer and die
Poem by Dr Ndabuli Mugisho
Roof shingles
are tossed like confetti in a Banshee wind.
She says it's going to be a bad weather day,
the green screen behind her wobbles
as a gust of torrential hailstones
rocks the studio,
yet her smile stays bright and perky.
The wind keeps churning through sparrows
and shattering windows. Tornados
spring up out of nowhere,
devastate homes, then ravish cows
as an afterthought.
Through a plasma screen
the attractive lady distracts my eyes,
She grins knowingly
I grin back, as we share a moment,
elsewhere, death strikes randomly
with a made for TV toothy banality.
Storms of platitudes continue to numb
and transfix.
I don't know why some must die
and others must keep watching.
I can only predict
that the weather girls will survive
to keep us informed
even as our living rooms implode.
She breathes in, deep
the crisp October air
to fill her little lungs,
as day dips in the distance.
Leaves tremble and they fall
from trees onto the path.
She grows before my eyes,
deciding she’ll not follow.
Shedding extra wheels,
she wobbles into balance,
and soars on tires of two
across an autumn canvas.
Hours slip away with sun;
a watching moon appears.
She rides across the stars
upon a brand-new cycle.
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