Poetry contests ...
skew the way
hoping
for a win
Ink
that never
truly dries
lost within the din
Words not felt
but chosen
to stay
forever cold
Spiraling
to depths unknown
in darkness
— bought and sold
(Dreamsleep: September, 2026)
I doubt that you have heard of me.
God saw that I was very ambitious,
And essentially said to me, 'forget it'.
The life lesson that I would prescribe
For you is one that I was forced to learn.
It is this: Be willing for God to write the
Script of your life.
The script I wrote for my life was voided.
My plan in life did not materialize.
I was displeased with the direction
That God allowed my life to go.
Forced against my will, I ended up
In a country I never would have gone.
My prize from God was my life. I was
A writer for the prophet Jeremiah.
My story can be found in his book.
My name was Baruch.
Evelyn the elfin sat down to write her list finally
She wanted this, that, the other, and a Christmas tree
Was she asking too much? She needed some brotherly advice
But her brothers were working in the workshop, checking it twice.
Would they also be the ones to read her letter?
Or would it be Santa’s prissy secretary Mrs. Better?
Mrs. Better could be almost downright mean some days.
Evelyn wondered at her attitude and persnickety ways.
She asked for this, that, the other, and a better attitude
For Mrs. Better, though I imagine this might sound rude.
Evelyn is a caring girl who kind of hoped the old bat would be the one
To read this herself, if so, her work was finally good and done.
verdant colors in the horizon call to my heart
my step is livelier now
for my she-shed is ahead,
waiting for presence and truth, mine
there is no writing like outdoor writing
active anticipation resonates in my brain
I can leave the bumble bramble of the city
and the evil naysayers in their concrete crypts
trees sprinkling acorns and walnuts give a whistle
day is breezy, sky an over-washed denim blue
ideas are promenading in the outskirts of my dendrites
Thoreau-like passion toward nature brings me home
Who writes poetry about jockey shorts
begs the question
~ Who reads it?
Only medium happy today.)
Only medium aware today.)
I was writing after being told
By God..The false prophets of
These latter years are the main
Or as I call them ( drainstream )
Information media; outlets re cap on the
The false prophets of baal.' The
Blood of saints and true prophets
Is on their hands, cue (isis mossad
Mi6 cia) etc, and media
Agendas pushing many conflicts.'
All Glory to the God of all.'
let her words be,
right or wrong,
her writing,
grammar and syntax be damned,
let it all resonate,
let it reverberate,
let it tell a story,
a tall, long tale
of truths,
let it transcend,
all pain (well at least her pains)
and the chilling nights,
and the embrace of morning.
through her words, and through her writing,
her very unstructured, unorthodox, free verse writing,
there is no mourning...
no morning, and no mourning
this is the setting
and these are the unique circumstances
even before she writes...
The poet waits for words to come
that will then stun the world.
He pens a rhyme to have some fun,
the run of ink unfurled.
A line about a special tree,
or stories filled with you and me.
Unlocking nature with his key
of poetry that’s pearled.
Such throaty timbres – oboes and bassoons –
such gowns! My Lady, apricot and plum,
her sleeves ablaze with blue October moons –
for one short night, her villa had become
the very essence of elysium!
To “fortify” us, as My Lady said,
against the winter tedium to come,
to banish melancholy, drive out dread,
she threw an Autumn Ball. Delirium!
We met the equinox with pipe and drum.
The quality of Florence all attended,
and never were Their Graces better fed!
The sun was up before our revels ended –
and Isabella? Still no thought of bed!
Three further galliards she’d yet to tread.
It seems I hear those trumpets even yet,
and taste the sweetmeats of that epic spread
(she’d plied us with light moscatel to whet
the palate) – I believe my mortal head
will throb for ever more, autumnal red!
The girl who writes love poems
Finally became the muse
She was so wrapped up in her delusion
She didn't see she was being used.
She poured out her heart into stanzas and rhymes
And basked in the warmth of his gaze
Little did she know the time that she’d waste
Would haunt her the rest of her days.
Though she spent years pining for him
She still ended up a fool
Despite the hours they spent in houses and trees
He wouldn’t look at her in school
And so now here she is
The main character in a poem
About how she yearns and longs for his love
But doesn't mean anything to him.
Relaxed while my muse writes, I watch her think
and link words that ignites
with creative verse insights.
Her thoughts then with me unites.
His writing was pompous and verbose
Why wouldn’t it be?
He writes like he speaks
He appears to be a loquacious windbag which he is
She's never loved broken love poems,
but now she writes them.
She's always feared swollen heads and broken tones,
yet now she finds she fights them.
Despite her mother's devotion,
she's forgotten the taste of oxytocin -
broken bonds within the unspoken, spoken.
Now emotion runs frozen
underneath hollow motions.
These days she spends her time playing theologian.
Here's my question:
No one cares to know someone like that,
do they?
butterfights
on butterfly'd
stopping goodbyes
without saying
i has a song
not in your garden
long time you spent
washing all the dirts
evidence
"let miss thang be in control"
just as long as she's around
"but the old dead tree!"
what about it?
"it is gonna squish my house"
so your not protected?
"your right i should use my words"
yes i am right
that crooked witch uses the whips
and controls that switch
she the welfare wizards
The Spirit writes of true life..The temporal world resists
In its lines of strife.' Yet the victory is before you and very
Clear trust in nothing of the world never fear.' Trust in God
Through Jesus name, find in heaven your home and all gain.'
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