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Lorca

Sameen — Wed, 16 Sep 2026 05:18:56 +0100

Bonsai: A Collection of Poems

sinha murari — Wed, 16 Sep 2026 02:12:09 +0100

1

Sugar no longer belongs in tea,
only sugar-free,
and the sound of the spoon stirring.

2

The lady of the house,
the lady's kitchen,
gas, mixer, microwave,
the battle of the wok and the spatula.

3

A bottle-gourd vine creeps
through the kitchen roof,
white flowers blooming,
while frogs call out,
ghyangor-ghyang...

4

A harsh, ringing afternoon in Bhadra,
the street hawker
wearing himself hoarse,
calling out his wares.

5

A harsh, ringing afternoon in Bhadra,
ripe hog plums crushed to pulp,
gram-flour fritters and mustard paste
shoved down the throat
by a sharp, puckering sourness,
the taste of our boyhood.

6

Water flowing through the drain,
a fig tree beside it,
and a little farther away,
a plate of rice,
a lump of rice and mashed potato.

7

Darkness descends
over the tops of the bamboo grove.
A sky crowded with stars,
the sound of a fox's footsteps
crunching through fallen leaves.

8

Water hyacinths drift
across the middle of the pond,
and upon their leaves
a spider has woven
its delicate web.

9

Sour curry of ripe shol fish
cooked with green mango,
its more formal name:
amshol.

10

A Hemanta twilight,
a ring of smoke,
and on the electric wire
rows and rows of birds
holding their evening council.

11

I converse with the steps
in the afternoon,
and in their moss-covered bricks
find the memory
of my grandfather.

12

Heavy curtains hang
across doors and windows.
Life, too, has grown heavy.
I find myself remembering
my mother's sari-end,
her anchal.

13

A wall built
to hide nature,
and upon that wall,
a landscape
of nature.

tears you could\'ve cried

arquious — Wed, 16 Sep 2026 01:06:29 +0100

tears you could have cried

Picking up the internal slack,
invoking an inward tension
that emboldens one to face the day
and the prospects of oncoming ones.

Wet cheeks reveal visible cues,
flipping calendars, leaf upon leaf:
. . . existing surrenders,

like a sparkled after-rain,
bringing a moist crystalline relief
that fills the cracks
and mends the broken places.

A FAIR WEATHER FRIEND

Alan J Ripley — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 22:11:53 +0100

A fair Weather friend,
a fair weather friend;
They'll always let you down.

They'll drop you in it,
right up to the end.
That wonderfully mysterious,
fair weather friend.

But

When there's something strange,
lurking in those woods.
Who you gonna call?
Troll busters.

When they follow you home,
and it don't feel good.
Who you gonna call?
Troll busters.

First Day of School BY Ann Wood

Ann Wood — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 17:54:27 +0100

I AM IN FIRST GRADE NOW BY ANN WOOD

Ann Wood — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 17:41:31 +0100

Talking to Myself

sinha murari — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 13:50:53 +0100

Short thoughts

Alan J Ripley — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 11:41:13 +0100

Have to laugh this bursitis,
has given my knee a beard.
Now it needs a pair of glasses,
So it can look like me.

third wheel

arquious — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 09:41:03 +0100

'third wheel'

That proverbial "third wheel" syndrome,

a companion in solitude,

lodges in the poet's heart,

a feeling that clings like ivy

on a stone wall,

never quite shaken off.

In crowded spaces, they feel distant,

like an observer through a fogged glass,

detached from love's tender embrace,

while longing stirs

like autumn leaves in the wind.

The poet walks through bustling streets,

the noise of conversations blending

into a distant wash of sound,

the scent of blooming flowers

mixed with city smoke,

creating a sensory tapestry

that enhances their isolation.

With each verse penned,

they mark the ache,

attempting to erase their alienation,

finding solace in ink,

crafting lines that intertwine

with their solitude,

transforming isolation into art.

But in the quiet of the night,

a realisation dawns, unexpected:

solitude, once a shadow,

becomes a sanctuary.

In the stillness, strength emerges,

an epiphany:

the poet finds contentment

in their own company,

discovering unique paths

for this third wheel to follow.

The peace of Understanding

Nils Teodor — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 07:22:47 +0100

“The innermost light, shining peacefully and timelessly in the heart, is the real guru. All others merely show the way.”
― Nisargadatta Maharaj

Thoughts and feelings are known

by the unknown knower

That always

Clear sky

Nils Teodor — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 05:51:40 +0100

No need to strive and travel far

to be what you already are

In the kiss of silence

truth is clear

peace is

always

here

Echo Chamber

Sameen — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 03:54:39 +0100

I don't want no echo chamber
Nor want voices shouting back
Only things I want to hear
To make me feel pretty and prim

I don't want no echo chamber
I'm no longer six years old
I can handle criticism
Even if they're meant as tar

I don't want no echo chamber
I want to better my craft
And that won't happen if I'm sitting
Holding hands and hand shaking

I don't want no echo chamber
I've spent 16 years building
A hammer to strike down the walls
That keep me from my destination

I want to climb mountaintops
I want to be told what I'm doing
Wrong and I can handle it
I don't want no echo chamber

I'm no longer six years old
I can tell the good from bad
Intent and what's meant to be swallowed
Whole or chewed or gently spat out

Bonsai: A Collection of Poems

sinha murari — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 03:22:22 +0100

1
Sometimes the mind becomes a dragonfly,
brushing against the petals of a water lily,
while a heron stands on one leg, lost in meditation.

2
Over the fence of the jasmine garden,
night-flowering jasmine falls into my courtyard,
softly, drop by drop.

3
A butterfly has slipped into the weaver's room,
and suddenly
the whole place flashes with colour.

4
A city morning. Along the asphalt road,
here and there,
water snails have crawled out of the drains.

5
Beside the cremation ground
where my father and mother were laid to rest,
a periwinkle stands laden with flowers.

6
Upon the face
of a gravestone
rests a red dragonfly.

7
On the fallen trunk
of an uprooted tree,
new leaves gather the morning sun.

8
In the middle of the fields, a shrine to Manasa;
beside the Brahmin priest,
a motorcycle.

9
A Poush night. The northerly wind cuts through.
People in distress light a fire with scraps of wood,
trying to chase away the cold.

10
In the month of Chaitra,
drumstick pods hang from the branches,
like the sticks of a dhak.

Humankind

Alan J Ripley — Mon, 14 Sep 2026 22:21:45 +0100

Here I go again,
meandering thoughts.
That makes me drained,
no real time to explain.

Nighttime has,
come around again.
Beetles and birds,
are in their beds

The rain has washed,
the world tonight.
Here's hoping humankind,
will treat it right.

It feels to me to be a sin,
when they don't realise.
The fragility of the world,
that we all live in.

It gives us joys,
we give it sorrow.
Why not drop the bombs,
that way we can live our days,
Not worrying about tomorrow's.

Misuse of PoetBay\'s comment system

Editorial Team — Mon, 14 Sep 2026 21:17:49 +0100

September 14, 2026

Hello everyone,

You arr probably aware that we have had a number of people who have misused our comment system, basically by touting for business, which contravenes our site rules.

The latest member to do this is "lunarlibrary23".

As Isabelle has done in the recent past, I have sent messages to Lunarlibrary23 requesting that he/she removes those comments straight away, and notified him/her that failure to remove them will result in a ban.

It appears as if this latest member to misuse our site has just posted the same comment to many poems without even reading the submissions. Stupidly they also offered their services to the author of "The Barefoot Bay' who died in 1916!

It is just possible that lunarlibrary23 is an account opened by the previuous member in an attempt to by-pass observation.

Please bear with the Editors who are doing their best to prevent this kind of abuse.

Best wishes,

Allen

for Editorial Team

Rain upon cobblestone

jane67 — Mon, 14 Sep 2026 17:41:21 +0100

He distances himself to the outher edge
before he lets the arrow fly
the arrow has lain there waiting
he has been sitting waiting
- not for the right moment
that is not who he is .
Its more the target has fallen into the position
where the arrow cannot miss.

Expectanlty he sits now, waiting
for the blood from the arrow to seep,
waiting for the moment when surrender
will be his trump card in her

Rain upon cobblestone
dances on bare feet
an angle grows wings

Maybe condemned
maybe only a shadow of yesterdays lost illusions.

There is something between these layers

a glimse , a light
stronger than simply seeing.

Disguises make it easier
easier to sit back in the hole
someone else has dug.

Maybe condemned
maybe loved

Rain upon cobblestone
dances on bare feet
an angel grows wings

The rest of distance - the dwelling place of beauty

jane67 — Mon, 14 Sep 2026 11:26:38 +0100

Yesterday I sailed upon a lake
a lake filled with deep blue joy

It whispered to me ;
swim in me
feel my ripples

in this beauty I found rest
though I am far from the lake,

today I will still see before me
that deep blue colour
and feel joy in it`s beauty
and feel the rest

The lake lies still
fine gentle waves
blue as blue blood
in joy and sorrow.

Whispering it calls
the ripples
of the swimmers of yesterday

The rest of distance
the dwelling place of beauty

The lake lies still

something you had to earn

arquious — Mon, 14 Sep 2026 05:20:03 +0100

"in hindsight"

I understand it now—

how every room grew smaller
when I entered it,
how every chair I pulled out
seemed to take something with it.

I had mistaken kindness
for obligation,
patience for exhaustion,
and every offered hand
for something already aching
from having to carry me.

I learned to apologize
before I had asked for anything.

Sorry for needing.
Sorry for wanting.
Sorry for being hungry,
for being frightened,
for taking up a little warmth
when there were others
who might have needed it more.

Even my silence
became another kind of noise.

I could feel myself
becoming an inconvenience
in the architecture of things—
a door left open too long,
a light no one remembered to turn off,
a name spoken with that small pause
people make
when they are already tired.

And hindsight is cruel
because it rearranges everything.

It takes the years
and places them end to end,
then whispers:

Look.

Look how much easier
it might have been.

No birthdays to remember.
No beds to make.
No frightened phone calls.
No waiting up.
No explaining.
No accommodating
the strange gravity of one more person
who needed to be loved
when everyone was already spent.

Perhaps the world
would have breathed more freely
without my particular weight upon it.

Perhaps there would have been
one less mouth at the table,
one less shadow in the doorway,
one less life asking
to be made room for.

I used to think
the tragedy was that I had been lonely.

Now I wonder
if the tragedy was simply
that I had been there at all.

And still—

there are photographs
where I am smiling.

There are hands
that reached for mine
without being asked.

There are doors
someone held open
even when I insisted
I could manage them myself.

There are moments
I have forgotten
because I was too busy
measuring what I cost
to notice what I was given.

So perhaps hindsight
has lied to me before.

Perhaps I was never
the burden I imagined.

Perhaps I was only a person
who had mistaken
having needs
for being a nuisance,

mistaken
being noticed
for being tolerated,

mistaken
the space I occupied
for space I had stolen.

I cannot undo
the years spent believing
I should have never arrived.

But I can look back now
at that smaller version of me—

standing apologetically
at the edge of every room—

and tell them:

You were not an imposition.

You were here.

And being here
was never something
you had to earn.

asset

Albert Vynckier — Mon, 14 Sep 2026 03:16:21 +0100

there are only monkeys who sit on their ass,
monkeys, cats and dogs
other animals like chickens, cows and pigs don't sit on their ass

to study, you have to sit on your ass...

an ass is used to be eaten like porks' asses, to make love or to sit

The earthworm

yoonoos peerbocus — Mon, 14 Sep 2026 03:11:56 +0100

has no word for work,instead lives it,
hidden its service as is itself,
so holistic its intimacy with dust,
propelled by the same passion
that fires
the poet, the painter, the potter,
the soil steward, an apotheosis
of maintenance,
dredges, coulters and ploughs
to hold the structure of the earth
and enrich the sod with its shit.
by burrowing
it furrows
a network of several waypoints
to let in sun and rain
to fecundate the seeds
to unlock their pirate chests,
to birth bloom a bountiful landful
of vegetables,fruits, flowers,
when a thousand birds
twitter after each fallow season
and restore the warmth
of hearth and home.

Leaning Forward

sinha murari — Mon, 14 Sep 2026 01:31:38 +0100

An old farmer,
bent forward,
even his shadow
has grown old.

Upon his shoulder
lies
a lonely afternoon.

Quite a lot of time
has been spent
around rice
and ash gourds.

If I could rub away
the marks of age
from the body
of this lifetime
with an eraser,
would rebirth
then glitter
in my hands?

On the sky
of the night school
I have stuck
a handwritten moon
with chewing gum.

I could not become
a teacher of mathematics,
nor could I become
milk
in the breast
of a teenage girl.

Now I catwalk
on the runway
of a black hole,

sit in a restaurant
and eat chow mein
with chopsticks,

go to the PlayStation
and destroy submarines
with a joystick.

With every step,
an intoxicating
love
echoes.

In the water
of the ploughed field
is reflected
the sky,
torn apart
by the deep blade
of the plough.

Beside melancholy
walks
what I am searching for,

but I do not know
what it is.

It remains
within my being,
a fever
drawn out
from apples
and pears.

That fever,
I act out.

At dusk,
young women,
filled with evening,
light fires
with twigs and straw
on their moist bodies.

Beside them
wanders
the cat of the night.

A frog lies dead
on the road.

There is no memorial
for it.

Beside one tree,
another tree.

Moonlight
rests upon their heads.

All the truths
of life
gather
in the lolling,
lush heads
of rice.

Now, come,
let us draw
a door
upon the body
of age,

and exchange hands
with
the Brahminy kite.

sunday evening

one trick pony — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 22:18:00 +0100

at last, a weekend at the vineyard

the smoke has cleared

i'm glad to be here, glad to be asked to be here

colin's grandfather is doing well

showing his age

true enough, so am i

yenny is divine

a word my grandmother used

to define special moments and special people

marcy, antoinette and antoinette's son nathaniel

are here

colin is in good form, seems chill

happy to see us, which makes me smile

it feels like coming home

lin and nathaniel, about the same age

are walking the rows

nathaniel, having been here often

is likely explaining this and that to lin

so i imagine

in a twenty-twenty-six version of man-speak

lin, amused by the one-sided conversation

can be dismissive

but i know she likes nathaniel, so i hope not

as for me, here on the patio

with friends

the people i love most, i'm content

i am aware that these weekends

are precious

i love the vista, the hills of live-oaks

golden in the evening sun

rolling to the pacific, a chill in the air

how many time i've done this

why do i feel nostalgic

surely we will do this through all eternity

yet, looking at colin's grandfather

and yenny

and changes in ourselves

and the so-called younger ones

i acknowledge

that change is not only inevitable

it is here to be seen

time matters, age matters

marketa sees my darkening brow

catches my eye

the merest shake of her head

brings me back into the present

the moment passes

i am fine, happy, in a lynn kind of way

a restless, unsettled, uneasy way, mind

always roaming

here, there and everywhere

watching for the unexpected

waiting

for the unknown

in its darkest form

that's lynn, that's me

antoinette and marcy are in the kitchen

helping yenny

marketa joins them, i pause

lin and the men-folk are talking on the patio

i watch them

listen to the soliloquy

colin's grandfather imparting wisdom

nathaniel nodding

colin . . . colin is quiet, lin quiet

as i watch and listen, something shifts

i am where i want to be

attuned to every nuance within and without

i feel marketa watching from the kitchen window

this is for her, i am unconditionally happy

"here, there and everywhere"

lyric by paul mccartney

Languid time

Alan J Ripley — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 22:08:08 +0100

The gift of languid time.
Flowing forever more,
throughout my mind.

Like a trumpet calling,
as if predesigned.
As a river flows,
downwards everytime.

The breeze stirs the trees,
waiting expecting softly crying,
For them to shed there leafs

For this is,
The autumn of my life.
With all the joys it brings,
But really i prefer spring.

A Barefoot Boy

Editorial Team — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 22:05:58 +0100

A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play —
For May is here once more, and so is he, —
His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,
And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:
Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array
Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me
Of woody pathways winding endlessly
Along the creek, where even yesterday
He plunged his shrinking body — gasped and shook —
Yet called the water "warm," with never lack
Of joy. And so, half enviously I look
Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, —
His toe stubbed — ay, his big toe-nail knocked back
Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.

More information on James Whitcomb Riley

Algebra of Love

Sona — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 21:18:37 +0100

Possibly
Its the easiest thing
to be-
To be a Lover
for all you have to do
is love and love away
all that comes your way
and remain steadfast
and anchored in yourself.

Possibly
Thats why its also
the hardest thing to be
for nothing remains the same
our bodies change
and we change along with it
or may be its vice versa

And yet to remain a lover
May be its the best thing to be
even better than
being the beloved.

But tell me,
which of these is a
dependent variable
with
possibly love as the contant.

Thats the magic
of love
the secret to its mystery-
Possibly,
To be a lover
is to be the beloved.

afD elected in Saxe-Anhalt !

Albert Vynckier — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 09:53:32 +0100

Anhalt is a good example for the city Sodom...it is understandable once you know the story from the Bible, the message is clearer

the horse died

MIRZA AHMER BEG — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 08:45:44 +0100

I drove across a road
and by the side I saw
a young dead horse left to rot
by the humans who live in mansions
and call themselves civilized and sane
they used this horse to pull and carry
and when it of no use was left to them

they as per their instincts and nature
let the horse die and rot
didn't it deserve a proper funeral ?
some flowers on its grave ?
or didn't he have a precious life at all?

unkempt traditions

arquious — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 07:51:15 +0100

"Traditions Unkept"

In the clash of cicadas at dusk
we once gathered on the back verandah—
barbie coals glowing, an old Holden
parked beneath the gum,
an esky brimming with lemon barley
and Mum’s Vegemite toast
at three in the arvo.

Our ritual: weak tea in chipped china,
shared slices from the tin on the sill,
then a slow wander to Murno’s corner shop
for a couple of lollies before the sun finally dipped.

Now the barbie stands silent,
the Holden worn and gathering dust,
the esky empty of clink and chatter,
and Murno’s windows boarded tight.

I feel the gap in those weathered boards,
the hollow where laughter used to spill,
when time stood still for toast and tea—
a nailed pause that now slips past fingers.

How are you feeling (part two)

JohnJohn — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 07:06:49 +0100

MY WISH FOR MY FELLOW POETRY WRITER\'S

Alan J Ripley — Sat, 12 Sep 2026 22:03:52 +0100

We wish that some,
would stop and think.
Before they write,
and criticise.

For it can impact,
on the general write.
Of genius poet's, (i'm not one).
Not that they really care.

As for me;
I continually scribble.
Scratching out,
Every given line.

Because I know,
Once dementia hits.
That I could forget how too
Write at any given time.

In the Bell-Pepper Light: Camilla Gripe

Ingvar Loco Nordin — Sat, 12 Sep 2026 11:39:39 +0100

famous in heaven only

Albert Vynckier — Sat, 12 Sep 2026 02:37:39 +0100

July Fourth

Kee Zealy — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 23:31:29 +0100

I used to frolic

Alan J Ripley — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 22:47:07 +0100

Many moons ago
I used to frolic in the snow
Not so now I need sleep
As I take my final walk

I still see the stillness
That silenced my mind
It's there through
An absence of time.

At least now I know,
Mornings between
Three and five
That's when my mind's alive.

Now it's time,
For me to sleep.
Goodnight.

Sipping Wine

Sona — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 18:42:41 +0100

i dont know
why i chose to
sip wine today
may be it was just there
a bottle gifted by someone
who thought
i am worth it.

So I poured half a glass
but i feel heavy
and its so
not worth it.

I have spent
a good day today
full of hard work
-i had been missing
for so long.

Done with feeling
sorry for myself
for being so down
after a bad fall.

The good days are
here again.
"Do hard work
-it always shows.
Don't worry
dont ever, okay.
Dont fret or stress-
nothing is worth it.
None over your health-
my honey."
Is what you said.

"And most of all
dont worry about me.
I would not be able to
bear the look on your face.
Be brave, my love."
This is what i heard.

Yes.

My days are
my promises to you
my evenings are
when i redeem them
My nights are when
I make them
with you.

Sociopathic Characters

Chaucer Whethers — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 17:39:27 +0100

They are playing to the camera
Dealing cards of commonplace cliche'
Pandering ethnic money drama
Doing anything to get their way

Metaphorical violence gun to the head
Categorical silence while you are bled
Dry
Why

There is only this one planet
Water, air and soil
Fighting over oil
Always dying to inhabit
Try
Buy

Objects gained for decoration fade
Bright colors in isotopic splendor
Charge it all on cards to pay for another war
False characters in trite charade

March on enchanted screens like fire
Electric tunnels lined with electric chairs
Manipulation of desire
Boutique medicinals for clandestine affairs

The New Normal

jim — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 14:19:48 +0100

Unedited. I'm thinking of more than 9/11, thinking of Pearl Harbor and mankind's history of destroying its best self.

I came to work that morning, one of my employees said, "they blew it up." I tried to get some context, but he had no context to give. Just "they" and "blew up" and "towers" and "jumping". I thought he was referring to some local event, though I couldn't imagine what. I worked that morning, as usual, worked on machinery, checked cows and calves, it was fall calving and we were especially busy,—curious what gossip I would learn at noon when I went in for lunch, turned on the news. Those hours between 8 o'clock and noon were the last hours of "not knowing." There hasn't been a day since that hasn't been touched in some way by those events, some inkling or sense that the world was irrevocably changed, that day something was lost that could not be regained. At least, that was true for me, but not true for those who have or had witnessed horrors beyond imaging since time immemorial, this just happened to be in my, our, timeline. What made this indelible was the immensity of the event, the visuals, the surreal images of the planes impacting the glass and steel, how relatively small the aircraft looked, the almost slow-motion coming down of the towers followed by the rising up of the dust and smoke and debris. The physics of it didn't make sense. When I went back to work after lunch, shaken to my core, my first inclination was to hang the largest American flag I could buy on the side of my barn—fight back. I felt a welling of patriotism which was unusual for me, as one who marched against the war in Vietnam. I thought "fight back" was not in me. It was. I even thought that I would be proud if my son were to enlist, the cause that great. Those thoughts faded quickly as the dialog turned political, fingers pointed, blame laid, events distorted by the same media that in all innocence showed us the first horrifying images. There would never be consensus. In typical American fashion sides were chosen, rhetoric became discordant, factions claimed the right to be in the right—the moment passed. The image of the flag on the side of my barn came down. The sense of unity vanished before it ever existed, and the machinery still needed to be repaired, the cattle still needed to be checked, the school play still need to go on, the tv news returned to weather and sports, life returned to a semblance of normal. There was nothing normal about it, it was a new, darker, world.

```

The New Normal

jim — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 14:19:48 +0100

Unedited. I'm thinking of more than 9/11, thinking of Pearl Harbor and mankind's history of destroying its best self.

```

The moon of knowing

Nils Teodor — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 07:46:46 +0100

"Past and future are in the mind only – I am now."

Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj

The stillness that you are

simply

Rest as this silent knowing

and the dawn of wisdom starts glowing

Dis-cover the natural peace of joyous ease

always here so wonderfully clear

The formless existence

is truly free

to simply

front desk 9/11

arquious — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 22:56:56 +0100

“Front Desk, 9/11”

The catalogue lies open
to Chair 47B,
its diagram promising lumbar certainty
in a world that has just
crumbled in on itself.

The sales phone blinks red,
a small emergency
that no longer knows its scale.

Someone wants a quote
on bulk swivel units
while the television
in the break room
shows a skyline
rewriting its own grammar.

The mob ledger on the counter
still smells of toner and sweat,
columns of numbers
trying to impersonate order.
But every digit trembles now,
as if the ink remembers
that bodies are not inventory.

A dust‑fleck floats
through the fluorescent light,
slow as a thought
trying to decide
whether it still belongs
to the category “ordinary.”

The executive’s badge
reflects the screen —
a tiny mirrored tower
falling again and again
in the plastic sheen
of corporate identification.

Outside, a forklift beeps,
insisting on its ritual,
moving pallets of chairs
designed for the posture
of people who believed
tomorrow was a stable noun.

And in the pause
between two news anchors
searching for language
that no longer exists,
the front desk becomes
a threshold without a name —
a place where symbols
forget their jobs
and objects remember
they were never neutral.

And the switchboard’s fireworks
go blank.

When i start to scribble

Alan J Ripley — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 22:41:27 +0100

I wrote this in response,
To a poem that clara wrote.
Her poetry,
will always get my vote.

In reality,
Clara Mae Gregory.
Light shines brighter,
Then you'd think.

As for me;

When I start to scribble,
as my mind dribbles.
That poem's inconceivable,
come into my tiny mind.

I only write for my love of poetry.

Every night i reach out,
to make sure my carols near me.
Without that I couldn't sleep,
because i love her dearly.

I Dont Know

Sona — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 20:47:12 +0100

I forget
these things
and those too

Loving me is
like being on
first date forever
for i need to be
told everytime.
There is nothing
i d take for granted
and feel blessed
for all the tenderness
coming my way.

But loving you
oh! my God
is like being held steadfast.
The way you behold is
continous and perennial.
Thats how love pours
out of you
and i flow.

I always thought
you are my sea
my ocean
my destiny
but now i know
i flow out of you,
my centre
my source.

No wonder
just around you
I am bouncy and chirpy
but with a little distance
i start meandering
and flooding my plains
and go quiet
with whirlpools in my feet.

And just then
you arrive in your chariot
of seven horses
to gather me again
in your arms
and celebrate me
with all aplomb
as I evaporate.

NOT AS GOOD AS I\'D LIKE TO BE

ken d williams — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 19:38:13 +0100

I write as best as I can

On reading back
I read just how bad
I am, to tell you the truth
Thats is what I do, in all
Honisty, is my polersey

Kenny D. Williams

The Dyslexic Wordsmith Ov Thanet

A Limerick Cycle

Rob Graber — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 16:27:24 +0100

There was a young girl in a choir,
Harrassed by a horrible liar.
When asked had he lied,
"All the time!" she replied,
That candid young girl in a choir.

There was an old man in a tree,
As full of himself as could be.
In glorious phrases,
He sang his own praises,
That irksome old man in a tree.

There was an old man in a tree,
As full of hot air as could be.
And seldom was heard
A reliable word
From that windy old man in a tree.

There was an old man in a tree,
So full of hot air was he,
That one summer day--
He just drifted away!
So now there's no man in that tree.

There is an old man on a stump,
Complacently resting his rump.
He'd led like a thug,
And he'd lied like a rug,
That crooked old man on a stump.

Monsters

Melinda K Zarate — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 12:15:16 +0100

Our Clock

Jamsbo Rockda — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 11:24:14 +0100

interior scene

one trick pony — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 10:43:59 +0100

marketa is reading

i'm typing

listening to some fine music

lin is off with her beau

up to no good

i hope

the atmosphere is different

overcast

softening the light

for the first evening

since july

the heat is lessening a bit

domestic tranquility belies

inner fragility

On the road again by ANN WOOD

Ann Wood — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 10:06:18 +0100

So it's time to pack for London again.
Tonight we are travelling with Mom to Sofia, and tomorrow at noon we fly to London.
How quickly time passes when you return to your homeland for a few days.
I may have to come back soon for more tests and possibly treatment.
I haven't left yet, but I already miss Bulgaria and my loved ones.
But we may see each other again soon, my dear relatives and friends.

Hungry map

sinha murari — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 03:14:52 +0100

When I walk,
beneath my feet,
the road begins to sound.

I listen
to the music of the road.

When I walk,
beneath my feet,
the road begins to dance.

I move my feet
to the rhythm of its dance.

When I walk,
beneath my feet,
a map of the road takes shape
.
I scatter myself
across the map of the road.

I want to play
with the road.

Hungry map

It gobbles up
my body.

John and the people

Albert Vynckier — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 03:13:32 +0100