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Pascal Borg Poem
A young girl, aged no more than ten,
recently orphaned in an unjust war,
on tiptoe, reaching up to a crevice
to tuck in her crumbled prayer.
She had been taught that God by any name,
Allah or Elohim, would answer all prayers.
Hoping that God’s heavenly scales
would favour her unselfish plea
against those that may wish her kind ill,
she reached the crevice and tucked in her prayer.
No one noticed her hijab slip or heard the wall wail.
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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Pascal Borg Poem
Protecting the peonies from gusty autumn
I cut a few and placed them in a favourite vase
on the window sill in full view of the garden.
Outside, a succession of leaves can be seen
releasing their hold on the branches of trees
and float past the window bidding final farewell.
Indoors, the peonies drop their petals one by one,
landing on this very page where this poem was written.
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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Pascal Borg Poem
Shadows tightly folded
into the hour of noon.
Clock hands clasp
and time stands as the stork does:
unmoving and going nowhere.
Venerable old men,
anchored on park benches,
idly stare in hagioscopic squints
at panting patrons
of sidewalk cafes.
A fly buzzes,
decelerates,
comes to rest…
The dog twitches,
unhitches the fly,
stretches under the table.
Another glass of wine sedates thirst
in warm sips.
A waiter trips.
The dog growls.
Time unclasps its warm greeting.
The stork repairs its stance.
The old men look the other way.
Shadows begin to unfold slowly.
And, as the last chime of twelve
hangs in the air,
only the waiters rush about
like buzzing flies.
(Premier Trophy Win)
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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Pascal Borg Poem
Tall, proud, somewhat conceited,
the elegant yacht sailed into the bay
(a place of meetings,
snuggery to a medley of lesser idols)
as a swan takes to a lake.
It dropped anchor,
aloof from the rest,
aware of the stare of covetous eyes,
it basked in calm waters.
Come night, its garland of lights
illumine the grace of a presence;
a rarity, speaking of riches,
unimaginable wealth;
dipping and bowing in exaggerated gestures:
a language all its own.
At the break of day, it set sail once more,
on a broad reach leaving the barnacled bay behind,
distancing itself from the blue bay’s waters,
the green of its eyes.
Yet, miles away on a distant shore,
once fierce waves, now a dying wake
make a gentle ripple
shifting the sands of envy
even as memory of its billowing sails
vanishes over the horizon
urged on by the persistence of protective winds.
(1st Prize in Craig Cornish's A Broad Reach Contest)
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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Pascal Borg Poem
What business had you here,
a child strayed into adulthood,
with feelings still sincere,
transparent as you stood.
What gave you the idea
to abandon sweet childhood,
leaving your dovecote
behind?
For what,
What did you expect to find?
Are you very disillusioned
with life now, my belle?
Regret having elisioned
skipping youth’s vow / well,
this is the way life is, wizened;
your childhood heaven, an adult hell.
It’s very mysterious,
be kind,
I’m curious,
What did you expect to find?
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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Pascal Borg Poem
In saying nothing
I’ve said all,
in truth my silence lies.
I’m not hiding,
I stand tall,
consent and dissent my allies.
In time they’ll understand,
for now, it suffices to say:
Nothing
Loudly,
so that the whole world can hear.
( 8th Placement in Rob Carmack's Polarity Contest)
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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Pascal Borg Poem
The stones on the patio are weathered
and ground, and the door that creeks
welcomes. The ceiling was measured
for other times, other heights,
and the floor is used to heedful steps.
Old tables and chairs disarm fashion,
have a style of their own:
haute couture of past culture,
their vogue is vintage.
I can live with the broken vase
which was worth repairing.
It knows the meaning of longevity
and in it the cut chrysanthemum
refuses to fade.
Those pans were new once,
they knew once the taste of mint,
but since have aged and mellowed.
Noblest of all are those objects in wood
whose handles have felt
the favour of oft-use.
Their polish reflects the palm.
I favour the works of the past,
the time-worn customs and lore of folk
whose venerable hearts
know the meaning of bosom.
I am a collector of dents in copper,
of meaningful scratches in tin;
grooves, furrows and notches
that count the years;
and faint wounds
that objects keep hidden within.
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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Pascal Borg Poem
Sounds rained from heaven.
Not insignificant words
like drizzle falling lightly
on steppe or Alpine slope,
but serious sounds:
fists of hail that reduced
the Sinai Mountain into
arid grains of sand.
But they did not understand.
Metalanguage still
precipitates into wars,
confusion reigns and
the vernacular is drowned
in Dead Seas of babble.
Semanticists argue over
the connotation of borders,
and megatons disrupt the heavens.
Still, they do not understand.
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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Pascal Borg Poem
Honorable mention in Line Guthier's Bite Size Contest No 145
THE LONE GULL
Haloed by sunshine, the lone gull descends
from the sky and hovers over the waters.
Walking on the waves, dips its beak catching fish
in waters where I would not dream of casting nets.
Then, spreading its wings cruciform,
wholly ghost-like, ascends into the heavens.
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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Pascal Borg Poem
THE TRAVELLERS
A hamlet,
no larger
than a miracle,
lies before us.
A dream,
crouching uncharted
under a sea
of night sky,
unexpected
but welcome.
The sea of night
parts its waves
revealing a moonlit path
through to desert sands.
And I
lead my companions
closer to it,
lest the day dawn
and the dream fade.
While the fear
of Pharaoh’s chariots
floods our hearts.
Copyright © Pascal Borg | Year Posted 2026
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