Monkey wrenches are distressing.
Always, with my plans, they're messing.
In my life, I've come to realize,
they come in every shape and size;
but I don't mind - it's OK,
what will be my monkey wrench today?
Clouds collapse into themselves, a restless gathering on the horizon,
The air is thick with electricity and unseen pressure,
All at once, the sky cracks open—
A jagged brilliance, white and sharp,
Splits the darkness, rattling bones and silence.
Horizontal rain erupts—not drops, but sheets,
Carving the world into fragments,
Vision blurred and uncertain,
Wind screams, unbound by order,
Wrenches branches, hurls debris,
The world bends beneath its force,
A raw exhibition of nature’s indifference.
Windows pulse with thunder, trembling glass,
Lights flicker, shadows multiply,
Inside, a pulse—steady, instinctual,
Waits for the storm’s rage to subside,
For the hush to gather again at the door,
For the air to return, soft and clear.
The memory of chaos lingers, just beyond the pane.
Tempest Poetry Contest
1/20/2026
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
The autumn leaf curls within tree tops.
Fresh off the frost-lined arm of oak,
vibrant as the sweetest of tangerines.
It passes its crinkly brethren,
trekking through those yet to venture to roots,
gliding by ghosts of the already travelled.
Branches glare with eagle-eyes,
gnarled limbs twisting,
plotting to capture the leaf
with wooden talons and bramble nets.
The vengeful wind,
jaws at the ready,
wishes to shred the traveller in two
with crooked wrenches in all directions.
But the leaf dances around the branches,
and tucks its corners away from the breeze.
It whistles along with a playful tune.
Forever elusive.
Forever free.
Under the streetlamps, yellowed leaves
drift in ill-fated pairs,
spiralling through the brittle air-
a slow reluctant dance.
Their shadows, stamped on the Earth,
flutter like startled birds,
seeking a phantom escape
from winter's deadly hands.
They brush against a stranger's coat,
clinging for a heartbeat
before the wind wrenches them away-
a cruel puppeteer
that watches them pirouette and writhe helplessly,
carrying them, one by one
into the cold, dying cradle of the Earth.
There they rest
in the borrowed warmth
of a bonfire's reflection
and the sporadic firework
that sputters too weakly
before collapsing into empty embers.
And when all light fades,
and only the sound remains-
they hear
the ominous, melancholy murmur
of leaves crushed
beneath passing feet.
Dust taints scent of rain
the wind wrenches gate ajar
lightning splits the clouds—
grime streaks down marble headstones,
as silver names bleed deep red
bouquets torn and flung
petals smashed into the mud
plastic stems snapped clean
weeds kneel and crawl up to stones
claiming what storm has laid bare
the squalls scour angels
driving grit deep into wings
puddles drown vases
pebbles scatter like lost teeth
pathways get buried in hail
beneath all this rage
the dreamless ones stay silent
beyond the storm's grasp—
no pleas get through weighted soil
moored tight in unyielding peace
storms don't bow to the names in stone
don't hear the prayers carved to atone.
the dead can't rise, the dead can't plead—
the wind takes all, it's wild and unforgiving
the wind takes all, it's wild and unforgiving
My friend comes through and talks to me,
With their stuck nails being all I can see.
Instead of listening further,
I get my wrench and try to loosen the nails,
Trying to make them no longer be a problem.
However, what I couldn’t see,
Was that my wrench was damaging the nails,
The ones in my friend,
And they were only getting tighter in their flesh.
I reflect on my wrench, and I feel it’s broken.
But when I reflect some more, I realize it’s not broken.
Wrenches aren’t able to get nails out.
They would’ve asked for my nail puller if they wanted me to do that.
Even then, the pain of the nail would still be there from the force.
If I listened more to my friend, and stopped putting fixing their problems up to me,
Maybe the nails would’ve actually come a bit looser less forcefully,
And this, because I love them, I wish I could see.
Some still now
remember when
years ago
it there stood
red enamel
with handles of chrome
a polished top
of finest wood
with drawers so large
with tools filled
most carefully cleaned
and put away
wrenches of chrome
both tiny and large
some modified
for particular jobs
and bars of brass
most carefully shaped
that they did use
in most curious ways
and how they did tell
tales of old
in jobs they done
over so many years
but now it’s gone
just memories remain
of the red toolbox
now they’re gone away
Sometimes, life just fractures into pieces
Too many to put back together
Time is consumed with a lot of work
Often falling into circles going no where
Striving so hard for solutions and peace
As turmoil wrenches the heart and mind
It is easy to fall and hard to get up
It's not easy to see the beauty once there
As problems and the healing are priority
It's as if a veil is between conflict and peace
You can only do so much, when others don't
So many things take waiting for to happen
While time speeds and you feel stuck
What was once inner strength, feels weaker
You yearn to feel light as leaves fluttering in breeze
You try to slow down with the sound of wind chimes
You wonder, if anything that's done is ever enough?
You even wonder if you've lost yourself?
Memories return of joyful days and pleasant places
It all seems so long ago, so very far away!
You wonder why it's so hard to reach now?
How can it all be so far out of reach?
Walking on fractured pieces of life each day,
That feel like footsteps cutting your feet
And you wonder if things stay out of reach,
- Will they ever be the same - ?
Heidi Sand
5/31/23
I like sad music
that wrenches the heart.
It drowns me with the feelings
of not belonging but deeply apart.
It elevates me to the likes of the
Gods of hurt,
because of this genocidal earth
I was broken
from the moment my senses
began to start.
I could never become a stone,
dance in delight with happy tunes,
be someone justifiably
cruel and uncaring smart.
(April 07, 2023)
There are abilities in disabilities
So shun idioms that mock any form of disabilities
I know a fellow that has his physical frame unbalanced
And his head obliguely and disingenuously referenced
With slash reference Oriogbade may look dowd
But his wisdom these disabilities couldn't shroud
I hail his sense of humour for being so superb
And the philosophies canned in his proverb
The lessons in life are lives themselves
Oriogbade taught us to believe in ourselves
There shouldn't be such idiom again as turn a blind spot
For Oriogbade, his proverbs prove that he's a hotshot
Should there be someone that can help him to the top
I mean someone that can give him a leg up
Like those who brought him on air to grease his wheels
In order to fortify his resolutions against future ordeals
Oriogbade will be a recreation in the movie works
With his disposition he won't be a spanner thrown in the works
As he begins to breathe with profit and from his wrenches unclench
May he never be clenched again to go back to the trench
Teaching
Learning is easy,
we sit back and watch.
It is a thing we think we do,
all our lives.
But it is not true.
We skate,
without doing the work,
without being seen,
as there is no reason
to believe
more is necessary.
Understanding the difference,
between living and dying is heartbreaking.
It wrenches the soul from its roots,
and throws it about.
Lack of it is costly, expensive,
brutal, carrying self-inflicted...
wounds seen and unseen.
"Sleep" is easy, until something changes.
Then the world is upside down.
Being prepared is a process,
of reading and understanding.
Freedom is the right to full information.
It is the right to not go along.
It is the right to tell others,
what you see, is not what you might get.
But the very idea of uncensored data,
poses the largest threat,
to their sovereignty.
So, they jab us with needles,
and pins till we cry out,
and scream about fairness,
about equality.
The truth is we are all the same.
Our blood is red like the sea... that kills.
We are alive because the Maker made us that way.
We breathe at His discretion.
Take heart the King is real!
Daddy brought it home to mother
She did not like it at all, in fact it made her angry
Those innocent tough spikey, sword-shaped leaves
Centered with white rosettes in tight buds caused anger
Today when I see those buds appear
I think of you~ Sadness wrenches my heart
You meant well and that Yucca has spread
There are many white rosette buds dripping dew and rain
You called it bear grass while laughing
Finding it in the woods you dug it up
Those rosettes still in bud waiting to open
Mother did not laugh~ she wanted a lilac bush
Years later I told my husband not to dig it up
Let it stay, memories flood my heart, mind and soul
Each spring when the spikes appear straight and strong
Loaded with rosettes of your laughter~ my grief wanes
Then joy fills my being because
Yucca's creamy buds remind me of your love and joy
How your emotions could change
When seeing the beauty of the simple Yucca buds
I think you were a poet and romantic at heart
I know this is not a quatrain but is more free verse.
Mama vise-grip had but two meals left for her little baby brights.
Her wrenches were beak up, waiting for her to do the right thing.
Being a mama, she knew she had to give them the last two bites.
They gulped down their meal eagerly and began to happily sing.
Our mama vise-grip is the best, long live our mom, we love her so!
They settled down for the night, all snug and happy for the time.
She felt better already, though she knew they had a long way to go.
In the morn she would scour the sidewalk for a nickle or a dime.
It’s what a mother does she told herself, as her tummy grumbled.
Even a vise-grip mama? An internal voice asked in way of a sad song.
Especially a vise-grip mama, she replied, feeling more than a little humbled.
She knew people said vise-grips were cold, and she knew it was wrong.
On this earth, which the man beholds
As his sanctuary own, he has proved
The mightiest of all and defied
Challenges unthinkably hard,
Has taken the route of science
To go up the value chain
That shields him from disasters
And plagues but at what price?
Lives sacrificed and centuries wait,
All seem to go up in flames
As out of the blue Coronavirus strikes.
A reminder that the world is flat for all
Crowns and paupers no difference
None owing its pardon for a bribe
Coronavirus the cruel is at his door
With its penchant to attack the crowds,
And known for its savor for flesh vintage
Goes on the rampage in search
Of the vulnerable old, raring
To afflict and put him to death,
Heart wrenches as digs invisibly the pest
Into his kith and kin to reach unto him.
Fight between the man and the devil
Is heating up every second
As destiny stands with bated breath,
With the economy in ruins and so the life
The man needs to hit the devil fast
Where it hurts the most
By cutting off its wingspread
By him moving into a loner's life
A skill that's not easy on the man
But once mastered Coronavirus
Is bound to lay down its arms.
Words fell through my mind
in plumber’s wrenches
you walked
through a room
my hands shook
I kept pebbles in my pocket
to hold on to
you
kicked at my desire
broad hoofed
your head became
an Olmec icon
my fingers reached
reached for you
like skinny cobs
of ancient maize
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