Poetbay.com

[27 Sep 2026] - Community poll | Posting limit? (Completed)

Editorial Team — Mon, 28 Sep 2026 01:05:23 +0100

27 Sep 2026

Hi everyone,

We completed the update and we did some extensive testing of everything -- all seems as it should be. But if you run up against any issues, please let us know.

Thanks,

Isabelle

===================================================

27 Sep 2026

Hi everyone,

This is simply to notify you that we will be updating the site today 27 Sep 2026 to implement the posting limit we discussed a while ago. This will cause a few changes in a few sections of the site. Please go over our 27 Nov 2025 update below which details these changes.

This update will require a short period of down time for the site where you will not be able to use the site. We will put the site down at 19h EST - 00h GMT - 01h CET for about 1 hour. Of course we will do our best to keep it as short as possible.

Thanks,

Isabelle

===================================================

27 Nov 2025

Hi everyone,

Sorry it took so long to get to this! But we're now ready to set the community's daily preference for the publication of texts on the site which is 3 to occasionally 5 texts per day according to what you expressed to us about this topic.

So we have set the limit to 5 texts per 24 hrs to allow for the occasional 5 texts and we've set it on a 24-hr period to cater to the different time zones of our members.

About this limit, however... we placed it only on the site's main publication lists (PB's home page and Today's Texts). If you reach the maximum of 5 texts in a day, you'll then have the option to save your new texts as drafts or publish them on your author's home page only.

This is to avoid saturating the site's main publication lists but allow an unlimited amount of posts on the site. So the texts displayed to your home page will not appear on PB's home page or Today's Texts (main lists).

We think doing it this way is a good compromise. It allows members who want to build their home page of their works to do so and avoids the flooding of the main publication lists by one author in a day.

In order to accommodate this change, we had to modify some parts of PoetBay:

Any texts that are unpublished will now be found listed in Drafts instead of being listed as 'Unpublished' 'cause this simplifies the code and a draft is unpublished anyway.

In the My Page --> Texts section, you'll find displayed in the table under the new column Visible the following :

Bay -->

Texts within the daily limit of 5 texts are published on PB's home page and Today's Texts (site's main publication lists) as well as the author's home page.

Home -->

Texts outside the daily limit of 5 texts are published only on the author's home page or can be saved as drafts to be published later.

Draft -->

Texts that have not yet been published or have been unpublished.

Bay and Home will appear as links that you can click to unpublish a text. The function to unpublish a text (button Save and unpublish) is no longer in the edit section of a text. When clicking Bay or Home to unpublish a text, that text will automatically become an unpublished draft (so the Move to draft button has also been removed).

We also modified two column headings in that table. The column Published (Yes, No, Draft) has been renamed Visible (Bay, Home, Draft) and the date column Created has been renamed Published (date the text was published makes more sense).

When you reach the daily limit of 5 texts, you will be notified by way of a screen message that you've reached the limit, but that you can publish the extra texts to your author's home page by clicking the button Save and publish to Home. This will display your texts on your author's home page only.

Although texts published on the author's home page will not be displayed on PB's home page and Today's Texts, the site's main publication lists, they will nonetheless be displayed on Today's Texts Applauds list as well as our Top Ten page, if they're applauded, bookmarked, or commented. They will also appear on the Friends' latest texts list on My Page so your friends don't miss your latest posts.

Texts published within the daily limit of 5 texts will show a button Save and publish to Bay. This will display your texts on the site's main publication lists (PB's Home page and Today's Texts) as well as your author's home page.

Now that we've entirely reworked the code, it will be very simple should we ever need to make changes to the limit. So if you the community ever want to change that limit, we want you to know that we'd now be able to do it quickly.

Members with a Free account will retain the weekly limit. And members with a Supporter (red heart) account will have the daily limit of 5 texts on the site's main publication lists and unlimited on their author's home page.

We hope you find this suitable. Please let us know. If you're happy with this solution, we'll go ahead and put it up on the site.

Hope you are all well... Be back in a bit.

Isabelle

===================================================

01 July 2021

We need the wider community's position on this long-standing matter before making a decision on how best to resolve it. Thanks!

Hi everyone,

At the current moment, there are no specific rules concerning posting behavior on our site. There is a general limit of 5 poems/hr for everyone (for server performance control).

However, there's a long-standing matter we occasionally come up against whenever new members arrive (not their fault; they don't know). They're often understandably very eager to share their works, and so end up inadvertently 'flooding' the main public lists of posts on the Home page and Today's Texts page with their poems.

This has for effect of saturating the space and bumping other authors' work out of view very quickly.

We know when this kind of situation occurs, it makes a lot of people unhappy. It's been expressed to us many times by quite a few members that this behavior is primarily received as an excessive one and as a lack of consideration for others.

As most of you know, we're not crazy on imposing blanket rules just to cater for a few. We always hope people will make their own good judgement and in time naturally suss how the vast majority on the site isn't posting their works in that manner -- even if the site has been designed by the original creator to allow serial postings.

But since we don't make our community's flow explicitly clear anywhere -- except for a gently suggestive newcomer's tip box displayed on the Write Text page for 2 weeks -- we feel it's time to outline specifications about the community's preferences as concerns this particular recurring matter in order to put in place a resolution. At the moment, our hands are a little tied to say anything without having any specific rule or established consensus in existence.

We'd like to know your thoughts or suggestions to help us determine the best way to resolve this kind of situation. PoetBay is your space and it's really important to us that whatever we put in place reflects your ethos and wishes as a community. Our hope here is to check the wider community's current pulse, so to speak, about this kind of occurrence before making any decision.

What is your position on this matter?

Should there only be a rule on excessive postings to facilitate

the handling of the few instances when they happen?

Should there be a more restricted hourly posting limit?

Should there be a daily posting limit?

If so, what would be a reasonable limit in your view?

Thanks for your participation! We highly value your input as we rely on it to make these types of decisions for PoetBay.

Isabelle

PS: Public comments, private messages, and emails are all welcome. And as customary, we'll be taking the take time to fully consider all feedback as well as figure out our best options, and we'll be posting the result of the poll once concluded.

Awakening

yoonoos peerbocus — Mon, 28 Sep 2026 00:43:10 +0100

Suddenly my eyes unseal as dawn
breaks not on the horizon
but in my heart
which wishes it owns nothing
as it opens as the wisest
of book.
Now without the shards of earthly glass
I see the cage I have been
hostage in. and realize
the quality of sleep is truth-fed
not due to the comfort of bed.
Imperceptibly
I let go
what are of no use
until the only thing left are
unbearably
important to me
unspeakably
essential to the world and
unendingly
vital for the soul
and came to feel an emotion
foreign once before.

lin opines

one trick pony — Sun, 27 Sep 2026 22:10:03 +0100

lin says i use poetry

to disguise

true emotions

you still love terri

she says

but write about marketa

i was besotted by terri i say

with cause

i love marketa note the verb tenses

you're rationalizing

she says

you can't get her out of your mind

i'm annoyed hush i say you're opining

above your pay grade take out the garbage

God willing

poet*salem — Sun, 27 Sep 2026 17:22:09 +0100

when I come back ...

to my home country India...

i will put boundaries to my life.

moneymaker in a transat

Albert Vynckier — Sun, 27 Sep 2026 13:47:55 +0100

1)
a rich man without a job can still pay a rent
but a worker without a job could rest in prison
money has its own virtues

2)
addicted to money
a dope that he can create himself
if he has too much money,
he is not on drugs he buys things
when he feels in need for money,
he has a gift to make it

3)
who write the story of Belgium when
the country is not at war ?
a)the journalists in the newspapers
b)the secretary of an Academia ?

605 BC

Chaucer Whethers — Sat, 26 Sep 2026 23:09:21 +0100

In Persepolis

Centuries storm rain fell on

Babylon Gardens

replete moon

jim — Sat, 26 Sep 2026 22:54:46 +0100

i was surprised and not surprised

last night, after dark

that i was so enchanted by the beauty of the full moon

surprised by the depth of the enchantment

not surprised

for the full moon, any phase of the moon

causes me to take note, to appreciate and wonder

it has been a summer

of intense heat, smoke and drought

too much of it spent indoors, i lost track

of the phases

last night was an awakening from my summer stupor

a reminder, a taste of nights to come

as i walked

my inclination was to share the image, which i can do

though it conveys only a hint of the reality

but to write of it

i haven't the skill, my adjectives

would not be up to the task, rather

a suggestion—

imagine an autumn night, a forest, a full moon above

a harvest moon, a corn moon, as some call it

a country road

a view to the southeast, a thin veil of high clouds

whatever image or images

come to mind

will clearly outshine any words i might conjure

The Coin Toss

Melinda K Zarate — Sat, 26 Sep 2026 17:15:04 +0100

would you leave a note?

arquious — Sat, 26 Sep 2026 14:06:58 +0100

"would you leave a note?"

Would you leave a note,

if the thought came not as thunder

but as a small rearrangement

of the furniture inside your chest—

or a shift you almost missed,

the way a room feels different

after someone has opened a window

and walked away.

Would you write anything down,

if the impulse wasn’t a flare

but a quiet reckoning—

the kind of list you make

when you’re not sure

what belongs to you anymore.

Some people imagine a letter

as a final declaration,

but maybe it’s closer

to a misplaced receipt:

a record of something

you once carried,

folded without ceremony,

left in a pocket

you stopped checking.

Or maybe the question itself

is the note—

the way it lingers,

the way it asks

for a witness,

the way it tries

to place a hand

on the moment

before it drifts.

Would you leave a note,

or would you simply

let the air hold it—

a thing left unsaid,

an unaddressed thing,

the small, persistent mark

that stays

even when nothing else does.

Reflections of our life by Ann Wood

Ann Wood — Sat, 26 Sep 2026 11:48:10 +0100

Today the sun rose again for me; it's a beautiful sunny day again.
Today I have so many wonderful things to do that I wish time wouldn't stop for now.
It's a new day again for you and for me.
Everyone chooses how to spend their new day: enjoy it, live it carefree, it won't happen again, remember it.
Leave memories for later: beautiful moments, unforgettable meetings, even some love experienced.
Can you experience a short love, or do you have to live a whole life for it?
I'm still asking myself questions, and I don't know the answers yet.
For me, love is the magic that happens in the soul of two people.
Leave wonderful memories of life; everyone can do that if they look for it.

I AM READ (Added Last Line)

ken d williams — Sat, 26 Sep 2026 07:33:15 +0100

I am read
Excepted
Flores
Faltes
Anal all
With out
No jugemant
Given
Thearfore
I am happy
For all of that

I am content

Kenny D. Williams

The Dyslexic Wordsmith Ov Thanet

Paints A Pretty Picture

Chaucer Whethers — Sat, 26 Sep 2026 00:24:31 +0100

When the Night sky paints a pretty picture

Of unconscious messages buried in fields of light

Like a lost beast crying from hunger in a confusing dream

Or a clear glass bowl of roses burning like a blood sun

When a dearly anticipated day fades again and goes away

Like a river of sacred rain rising so high then falling from sight

Like a boat that's lost it's oars with a mad tide rising fast

Covering eyes with hands miming posture

;Polarities reverse the edges blur

As colors whirl on a canvas, whisper

When the Night sky paints a pretty picture

Tony Blackburn

Esti D-G — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 19:33:32 +0100

Still on my radio,
Sixty years later.
Still bringing a smile
First thing...
Still choosing
The best songs.
Still giving me
So much joy.

I met him
At Olympia
Aged thirteen,
"Esther the Breaster"
Had been my
Monicer.
When asked,
To whom
To give his
Autograph,
"Brez" was born
And "Brez" it stayed.

first was nothing or chaos ?

Albert Vynckier — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 15:23:13 +0100

I love the way painters are drawing portraits
they start not from nothing
but from chaos
they put colors bluntly and randomly on the canvas
and then they bits by bits sketch the details

I am Indian

poet*salem — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 13:14:31 +0100

we came here long time ago

and now we have to come back

to our home country.

This Is It ?

Chaucer Whethers — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 12:38:17 +0100

Dropping matches in the midst of a forest burning

Conflagrations sprout like viruses of thought

Glimpses are caught at the height at the high

Point of tragic departure there is no returning

Someone poses as imminent with a telling character flaw

Flaunting reality with dirty tools like power and money

There is really not much sanity as if that explains it

No redemption from this cancer masquerading as The Law

Skulls get fractured, fractures are ground to dust

The Western sun set so long ago

What is not true, yet May be so

Poignantly sad to construe

Tragic scenes pollute the screens

Tattooed ice screaming eyes on fire

See their pockets picked and linings ripped

Something's tipped the scales weighed with rusted writ

The worst is yet to come and this is it

RICK, FALLING OUT OF LUST

Griffonner — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 10:42:59 +0100

I trudged back to Bliss's flat -
I had moved out of the hotel.
Where else was I expected to go?
Trying to forget the Dog and Duck;
dismayed at Bliss, fed up and done;
I poured myself a large drink
from Bliss's crystal decanter
intending to lick my wounds alone.

But no more than five minutes later,
Bliss bursts into her appartment
accusing me of deserting her!
Tears streaming down her cheeks,
sobs shaking her slender body.
My stomach twisted and ached,
and I felt such compassion for her
I just had to hug her and wait
for her to calm down so we could talk.
In the ensueing conversation
I learned that Hank was actually
her half-brother and no way a lover.

With tears still streaming she explained,

between heartfelt sobs and gulps of air,
Hank, over protective of her, insisted
on checking me out when he carried
our two drinks to our table,
later going with her outside the pub
to see his new car. Her big mistake?
Was her going on a test drive
which was why she was gone so long.
I have such a suspicious mind!

You know, this honesty driven moment
was when I actually fell out of lust
and into love for my darling Bliss.

Hank, meanwhile was waiting outside
to make sure Bliss was safe and well.
We met up and chatted by the side
of his Dongfeng CA71. What a beast!
How the hell did he buy one of those!

And therein lies an interesting tale...

© griffonner 2026

\'\' I AM A CANADIAN!\'\'

ken d williams — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 08:02:48 +0100

Now in Ramsgate, I now acustom to hearing Amrican voyses
That I tend to say: '' More Amrican refuges! '' I say with a smile
They usealy smile right back at me!
But, there can be a problem at times, you my dear reader
I recan you have guest the problem that arises, yes
'' Pal, I AM NOT AN Arimrican - I AM A CANADEAN!
How embarisan!
Latest inseredant acord while I were in my favaret Cafea CATALEYA'S Albainan for flower, in Ramsgate Harber Street
Anyway, me being me, digres, as I tend to do as your my dear reader know by now! Smiling as I sigaly figerler type this to you.

Back to my story of the event, the expearnce I had that day
'' I AM CANADEAN, Pal! ''
Now what to do? Well I groveald, didant I!
I took, Narbers arm, gentaly,soothde her hecals!
Her, name, being Barbarer
Baber, as is her name, we got to chating, soon to talking , a Freindhip Began

Kenny D. Williams

The Dyslexic Wordsmith Ov Thanet

Little Sandra Dances

Jamsbo Rockda — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 06:26:28 +0100

some assembly required

arquious — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 04:44:14 +0100

The Assembly Line

(First line / Loop payoff)

It starts with an appetite we didn’t build.

They sold us the mirror,

then rented us the light,

then asked why we were tired of standing still.

So we package the exhaustion,

call it aesthetic,

and post it before the feeling dies.

And by tomorrow morning—

(Loops back seamlessly to: "It starts with an appetite...")

The Ecstasy of Saint Sebastian (Ecce Homo)

Antonio — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 03:36:00 +0100

Marble thighs bound to the olive tree
Where Abraham's knife should have been
My eyes roll white toward heaven's indifference
While Roman steel births crimson flowers.
Each arrow a lover's betrayal,
Each wound a mouth that cannot speak
The name of Him who made me hunger
For the salt-sweet taste of forbidden meat.

In te Domine speravi!
But which lord do I call to?
The one who damns this aching flesh
Or the one who sets it trembling?
My loincloth white as driven snow
Conceals the rod of Jesse blooming.
Even as the centurions pierce
The temple veil of my undoing.

In te Domine speravi!

In the garden of Gethsemane
Where Judas kissed with poisoned lips
I taste the poison of my shame
While angels weep and Heaven strips
Away the mask of sanctity
To show the beast that writhes within -
This sebastos, this august thing
That feeds on beautiful young men.

But lo! the arrows multiply
Into a crown of golden rays
And what was piercing becomes caress
Of Apollo with his burning gaze.
The wine-dark blood that flows from wounds
Becomes the vintage of the vine
Where fair Bacchus, androgyne,
Transforms this water into wine.

My bonds become the golden chain
That links desire to desire.
And what was suffering flames bright
As sacred, consecrated fire.
Now see: the table set with flesh
Of pomegranate, fig, and grape.
Each fruit a world, each world a mouth
That opens wide to change my shape

Ecce homo!

Ganymedes pours liquid light
From vessels that once held my tears
While Venus, naked as the truth,
Anoints my head with precious myrrh.
The peacock of Juno spreads
Its hundred eyes to witness this:
How martyrdom becomes communion,
How suffering becomes a kiss.

Ecce homo, behold the man!
Who learned to love what he became
When Roman steel wrote poetry
Across the parchment of his shame.
In halls where gods feast without end
On ambrosial honey, fruit, and wine,
I take my place at the high table
Where mortal flesh becomes divine

No longer bound, no longer pierced
But piercing through the veil of night
That separates the sacred from
The profane. I am the light
That shines in darkness, and the dark
Shall never overcome this flame
That burns from Sodom to Elysium
Speaking love's true name.

Consummatum est.

There ain\'t winners when the hearts are broken

Rob3rt Z3n — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 02:34:14 +0100

You've been the one I dreamed of
The one I've longed to hold in my heart.
You've been the mind I've adored to think of.
Possibilities for a broken heart apart
Philosophies of powerlessness to belong to.
But saldy I wanted to...

You've been the perfection of my own mistake
I gave more than I could and you could take.
You've been the emptiness when I freely fall
You were there whenever I could call
Saving my life and consuming my last breath
I could be alive when I was close to death.

Stories have both versions to blame or to console
It doesn't matter if we give our life and soul.
Stories have both sides to decide or to defend
But I'm sorry this is what I can't defend.
Maybe I will be your foe
But I let it go.

There ain't winners when the hearts are broken
There ain't finish lines when the souls are empty.
There ain't dreams when the wings are broken
There ain't tomorrow when days have no fantasy.

We were strong and weak
When we both wanted to speak
We were truth and lies
When we just closed our eyes.
We were in love behind a closed-mind
Were were lost though we tried to find.

There ain't winners when the hearts are broken.
There ain't dreamers when the dreams are stolen.
There ain't believers when both walk away
There ain't tomorrow when we just melt away.

Far from the City

sinha murari — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 01:58:32 +0100

Far from the City

Far from the city,
a veiled mountain.
Beneath the mountain,
a river murmuring along.
Upon its waters
floats
a secret boat.
Beneath an ancient oak
at the mountain's summit,
the me
of countless births
still sits in meditation.
Its trance
has yet to break.

A Sliver of Sky

A young woman sits
on a chair on the balcony.
Another
is brushing her hair.
Two kindred souls,
absorbed in their stories.
A sliver of sky
watches them.

The Wall's Story

A son in his father's arms,
the mother takes a photograph.
A son in his mother's arms,
the father takes a photograph.
Mother beside father,
the son takes a photograph.
Behind every photograph,
standing upright,
is
a white wall.
The Wall's Story

Towards the Day of Freedom

At noon,
a tree plays the piano
in the marshland.
When night falls,
a manuscript
of stars and braided hair.
I walk,
holding the hand
of a hailstorm,
towards
the Independence Day
of wild turmeric.

A Little Day

Inside my breast pocket,
a little day.
In its possession,
a vast sky.
There,
I take flight
as a bird.

Childhood

When
the colour blue
waits
for the yellow bus,
it acquires
another name:
childhood.

The Boats That Never Learned to Sink

I choose,
upon the turbulent waters,
those radiant boats
that have never learned
what it means
to sink.

The Hands of Death

My being
has been planted
with flowers upon flowers.
Now,
in the hands
of a mosaic-made death,
nothing
remains.

The bottom

Artorius — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 00:21:05 +0100

DOWN MEMORY LANE. Part eight

Alan J Ripley — Thu, 24 Sep 2026 22:12:24 +0100

THE TEARS STILL COME
WRITTEN FROM A LEXDYSIA MIND

Lately I realise,
my photographic mind has gone.
Which also means for me,
my time will eventually come.

At the moment,i still remember
past accomplishments.
Like having taught myself,
keyboard, and trumpet.

I used to play for the Sally ann
learnt different languages.
Including German. I remember
speaking fluently to someone,

i once knew on the phone.
As well as bluffing myself
Into being a TV repair engineer.
A job I held for a very long time.

I was given a plaque for,
outstanding customer relations.
Plus many other accomplishments,
including winning a victor ladorum.

(On southdown buses).
for indoor sports.
How it saddens me, to realise,
even my ability to rhyme will disappear.

Personally, I hope,
that day will never come.
Mixed dementia comes,
in different forms.

I know that I've got one of those,
i just do.
I know my cognitive memory,
is in decline. As for work,

I've never had A CV, would never,
have been able to fill one out.
Even posting this will be laborious.
It's taken me several hours to write this.

Before I transfer it over to my phone,
I've forgotten how to post. I realise this sounds
as though it's all about me.But it isn't.

it's about all those lovely people,
out there that are dementia ridden.
That can't speak for themselves,
And how they may feel.

I may even forget i wrote this.
I probably will: And yet ironically.
I know I've done all the above
I've just forgotten how too.

It's not fun,
slowly dying inside..
Expecially when you know,
your still alive.

Is this the sun setting,
on a dementia mind.
I wish for the day, my
thoughts no longer bother me.

Concerning Grandmother Emmaline

Chaucer Whethers — Thu, 24 Sep 2026 17:43:57 +0100

The Painted Horses

Melinda K Zarate — Thu, 24 Sep 2026 17:38:18 +0100

Dormant among the memories
of fear sharpened by upraised fists
and kicks that came fast,
joyful ones break through the dark.

Playing cards by lantern's light,
cooking on a camp stove,
shivering in front of the fireplace,
four days of forced togetherness
broken by the lights coming on.

A day trip to the beach,
seven bodies in an old station wagon,
filing out in haste to claim our space,
snacks and music and laughter,
sun-weary and quiet on the ride home.

A Christmas Eve at Walmart,
each of us with twenty bucks in hand,
a secret Santa list to fill a stocking,
carts pushed quickly with side-eyed stealth,
in an hour-long game of cat and mouse.

The carousel of my life,
riders coming and going,
loving the music of the ride,
always watching the operator
for when he'd had enough,
flipping the switch to off
as we all ran for cover.

The ride sits empty now,
but even with the sudden stops,
even when we found ourselves
inside a maze of warped mirrors,
the painted horses still rose and fell,
and in those moments, there was light.

The Language of Silence

sinha murari — Thu, 24 Sep 2026 01:23:46 +0100

1. A Little Quarrel
I don't like this much peace.

Come, let's wave our hands,
move our feet,
and have a little quarrel.

2. The Language of Silence
I cannot read
the language of silence.

Spitting on myself,
I quietly paste myself
onto a silent wall.

3. After the Autumn Rain
It rained last night,
rain in autumn.

Stepping out for a walk at dawn,
I see the park bench
glistening beneath
the lamppost's light.

Here and there along the road,
a few water snails.

4. Aquarium Civilization
On the water
where people swim
in the pond by the field,
the marks of human beings.

Forgive me,
O aquarium civilization.
I cannot become
a colorful fish.

5. The Four Rooms
From Green Mango's Greenroom,
we stepped out
and, holding the hand
of a wayward Valmiki,
arrived at Red Chili's Reading Room.

Then came so many words,
so much laughter,
so many songs.

Then, to Yellow Banana's Yoga Room,
where I lost my pen.

And now, through the very existence
of that lost pen,
I can write better poems,
sitting here in Blue Berry's Basement.

6. Questions for the Sea
I had gathered
a great many questions,
meaning to ask the sea.
Watching the sea's
restless waves,
I realized
my questions had disappeared.

When I returned,
all that remained
upon my body
was the touch
of saltwater.

7. A Philosophy of Water
A flock of birds
flew across the evening sky.

There is no shortage of science
within them.
Nor is there an excess of science.

In the morning light,
the trees are filled with
Togor flowers.

There is no shortage of beauty
within them.
Nor is there an excess of beauty.

Water flows
through the drain.

Fish move within the water.

To me,
that too
is a philosophy

arquious — Wed, 23 Sep 2026 23:54:47 +0100

“Solace, revisited”

The house is quiet,

not with absence

but with a soft weight

of things that have learned

to stay.

A cup waits on the bench,

sat on a small speck of light.

The oven radiates its warmth

into that late hour.

I used to call this solitude,

as if the word itself

were a door closing.

Now it feels like

a room settling around me,

walls leaning into their own stillness,

offering a place

to set down the day.

Solace was once a horizon

I could never reach.

Tonight it is the kettle

warming without hurry,

and the quiet way

the house remembers

how to hold me.

DOWN MEMORY LANE. Part seven.

Alan J Ripley — Wed, 23 Sep 2026 22:32:23 +0100

Hi, Melanie Sue
re your poem proud to say this man's a friend
(Who passed away).

Just a little note to say,
i don't suffer from mixed dementia.
I quite enjoy it, it's the people,
that's around me that suffer the most.

Forgetting what I've written, is a gift,
it gives me the freedom of expression.
And to be fair;
if I was any more laid back,
I'd fall off my chair.

I'm sure that Ed.
Was proud to be your friend,
as I am to.
Sad regards,
Alan and the rest of his tribe.

DOWN MEMORY LANE. Part six

Alan J Ripley — Wed, 23 Sep 2026 16:28:12 +0100

Comments are not council's verdict

Hi melinda from eastbourne,
suntrap of the south.
or so our brochure says.

All our little critters from,
the common ant carry with them.
Tiny little umbrellas,
Because it rain's to much.

Even the stick insects,
always put their wellies on.
The old centipede, sometimes
forgets that it may have rained.

He goes out, his front door,
looks out and says. Oh no
not again, goes back inside,then,
starts to put his wellies on again.

Loved your poem, one of the ones
i wrote was called critters.
Many regards Alan.

What would you like to say to God if He was living amongst us ?

Albert Vynckier — Wed, 23 Sep 2026 11:00:55 +0100

if God was a tramp on the streets
what would you like to say to Him ?

God, dress up, find a job and go save the world
We need you !

Losing Myself, Finding Myself

sinha murari — Wed, 23 Sep 2026 02:36:36 +0100

1. The Riverbank
Even then, when evening came,
I would go to the riverside
and sit quietly, all alone.
Even now, when evening comes,
I go to the riverside
and sit all alone.
Between then and now,
so many years have slipped away.

2. Losing Myself, Finding Myself
Whenever I go near the mountains,
I lose myself.
Whenever I go near the sea,
I lose myself.
Whenever I go near the forest,
I lose myself.
And it is through losing myself
within everything
that I find myself again,
within everything.

3. The Kite in the Tree

Before I go out to sow seeds,
I eat and sleep.
Even after I return
from sowing seeds,
I eat and sleep.
The wind comes
and gently sways
the kite
caught in the branches
of a tree.

4. Love on a Lotus Leaf

With trembling hands,
I write love
upon the surface
of a lotus leaf.
And upon it,
one or two dragonflies
come to rest.

5. The Butterfly

A butterfly
flew in and settled
upon a flower.
Before I saw it,
I was who I was.
After seeing it,
I remained
just the same.

6. The Flower

The moment I set my eyes
upon the flower,
my mind released
a quiet breath of peace.
The moment I looked away
from the flower,
a gentle smile
touched the lips
of my mind.

7. The Moon and the Dragonfly

A moon in the sky,
licked smooth with chewing gum.
Bearing witness
to the fragrance of shiuli flowers,
sprayed into the autumn wind,
I can take on
the form of either a dragonfly
or a butterfly.

8. Online and Offline Moons

Some gaze upon
the moon of an online colony
and adorn love
with jewellery.
Others walk
beneath the woodland moonlight
of an offline colony
and adorn their walking
with the jewellery of love.

DOWN MEMORY LANE. Part five

Alan J Ripley — Tue, 22 Sep 2026 22:17:18 +0100

Wrote this in response to several posts,
that i enjoyed between Melinda K Z,
and myself.

I remain silent. Most of the time,
mixed dementia doesn't help.
With the state of my mind,
or with the words I wish to find.

While trying to digest each word,
that comes out of someone else's mouth.
It's only later in the day,
i process what was said.

After which sometimes,
i find there's a lot of extra drivel,
floating in my head.
Nuff said.

Used to do a lot for others,
When daytime ends.
As I struggled through the day,
i struggle to sleep at night.

There's just too much running through,
A lexdysia mixed dementia mind.
Looking at the bright side,
The less i slumber, the more I write.

I enjoy the quietness of the night,
Good night friend sleep tight.
Don't let the bed bugs take a .......
whoops to late.

118 Years of Bulgaria\'s Independence by Ann Wood

Ann Wood — Tue, 22 Sep 2026 18:48:41 +0100

Imagine Sisyphus happy

Albert Vynckier — Tue, 22 Sep 2026 14:34:06 +0100

some jobs are full of meaning
some pay the bills
and some others like the myth of
Sisyphus have no meanings at all
like breaking stones in a prison
and yet, as Albert Camus said
you must imagine Sisyphus happy
that's wisdom
so imagine that the Dalton family
is happy to break stones in prison
and it gives no reasons for fleeing
it's in our nature to work and not being
happy
loafing like a cat in a rest house...

those hours

arquious — Tue, 22 Sep 2026 08:49:34 +0100

Those Hours

Slow steps

across the ground,

heavy with past days

and broken sound.

Stars rise

over the hollow field.

A gentle fire

keeps its small space.

Tears slip

without hurry.

Even the gold sea

moves away.

Spring leans close.

A spark falls.

The world shifts

in quiet flight.

Deep inside,

a journey stirs

— unspoken,

but enough.

Home waits

past the final table,

where poems

flow again

into the dark.

Today I am

jane67 — Tue, 22 Sep 2026 07:38:41 +0100

Good morning sunshine

good morning to me

today is a new day

today is a blessed day

today is filled with love

I am blessed

I am loved

I am open

This moment right now

I am happy and safe

this moment right now

I am filled with love

today I trust

today I dare

life is working for me

life is good to me

today I choose

today I am

Beauty-

yoonoos peerbocus — Tue, 22 Sep 2026 06:16:02 +0100

fur, feather,shell and scales
are not the beauty
you are born with
but your rind
that ends up,as mold
for future dust.
Beauty is the good
you do in this world
and feel comfortable
with who you are.

Stumbling Within the Language of the City

sinha murari — Tue, 22 Sep 2026 02:12:28 +0100

Stumbling through the language of the city,
I walked today
through the middle of a battlefield.

Blood.
Death.
Destruction.

And yet, tomorrow
will bring another new beginning.

A brooding, reverberating,
suffocating silence.
A shattered, broken world.

I plunge my hands into the earth
and paint a picture of revolution.

After a long life in exile,
I return to the village
and find how much
the homes and settlements have changed.

The traces of my childhood
are no longer there.
My eyes fill with tears.

Scattered, rough-edged pebbles,
broken branches of trees,
fragments of shells.
And yet, carrying all their mysteries
and adventures,
they return to me,
again and again.
wipe themselves
the tears in my eyes away.

For so long,
I have told the next generation
so many lies.

Now I have folded myself inward,
away from my own self.

Gender dysphoria,
distress, puberty blockers,
the search for gender identity,
hormone therapy.
Gender transition
continues to unfold
by individual choice.

Boys become girls,
girls become boys.

And even that
gives some people
a headache.

DOWN MEMORY LANE. Part four

Alan J Ripley — Mon, 21 Sep 2026 22:02:28 +0100

This was one of those poems,
that flowed through my head.
Intoxicating, what is left,

I never know where the stories go,
my soul screams at me once again,
Through my mind and my brain.
Pulsing while traveling,
Up through my veins.

Picking up speed whilst written,
i read as I write, no end insight.
Often I put a spin on the end,
As I wind up the stories.
I never know where they might end.
i just go with the flow, until the story ends.

second evening

one trick pony — Mon, 21 Sep 2026 17:02:37 +0100

after dinner colin, marcy and i sit on the patio, colin has some music in the background, the others are inside passing joints, just kidding, they're just talking and such, i think lin and nathaniel are playing . . . it doesn't matter what they're doing, we're talking about the last time we did a no king's march, earlier in the summer, how this country got into such a mess, colin and marcy see reasons for optimism, primarily based on the young people they see in their line of work, colin at the vineyard, marcy at the hospital and clinics where she practices, she sees young people working hard, being practical about their life choices, their sensibilities, their free time, their innate generosity, in stark, stark, stark contrast with their parents generation, these young people have grown up living with ethnic diversity, gender flexibility, tolerance, it's normal to them, as normal as inking and piercings and expressions of self, they don't care if someone is queer or trans or brown or white or black or buddhist or thin or heavy, this stuff is their normal, these young people are, simply put, hard-working and practical, they have rent and car payments . . . by now its gotten dark, our conversation turns to ourselves, our state of being, marcy and colin as independent-minded single people, career-oriented, while i'm in a committed relationship, don't give a thought about my career, it pays the bills, is boring but i'm good at it, and fits our lifestyle, and so on . . . none of us are ambitious for more than what we have, food, clothing, shelter, marcy and colin don't crave what they don't have, i certainly don't, we wonder what it is that drives people to the level of hatred and bigotry and fear that's exhibited in our sad, dysfunctional country, how someone so flawed could be perceived as anything other than a blight upon humanity . . . at this point we sigh and give up and talk about lesser things, how good the wine is, how pretty the night, how to keep mice from chewing the wires in the car engine, you know, the stuff of life, the mundane, the dull, the real, the wrong, the right.

The Angels\' Glowing Hair\'s Breadths

Ingvar Loco Nordin — Mon, 21 Sep 2026 11:38:11 +0100

a try to expulse the hatred

Albert Vynckier — Mon, 21 Sep 2026 11:00:22 +0100

be yourself and somehow, you'll be hated
be somebody else and you'll hate yourself

retelling

arquious — Mon, 21 Sep 2026 07:41:20 +0100

"retelling"

stories of us
i carry close
instead of photographs

the feel of them --

an album full of us
you voice through your words

as all else fades
non-essentials
faint as childhood scars

The Holocaust is coming

poet*salem — Mon, 21 Sep 2026 07:26:48 +0100

The Holocaust is coming,..

and no one will escape.

why not love a dying person?

MIRZA AHMER BEG — Mon, 21 Sep 2026 06:51:50 +0100

why not love a dying person ?
why not embrace their pain
love doesn't let one survive
it gives and then burns you alive

why not love a dying person?
for the expectations will end with
the person dying
no expectations no remorse
for disease or love
will kill you anyway

We are all

yoonoos peerbocus — Mon, 21 Sep 2026 00:57:43 +0100

words made readers' voice
set in tribal line, ethnic stanza
and belief genre
in the great poem, made
by planet earth itself.
We do not know who we are
but stay where the invisible poet
places us
and leave an impression
in the readers' consciousness
connected to something
ancient and universal-
mythology, history, religion, identity, time,
holding
larger truth of an immense unseen world.
We do not choose to be
evil, wicked
or
helpful,friendly,
the same alphabets
write us that way
and we carry different meaning,
We are reshuffled as those were before us
to suit a new way of thinking,
somehow original and still reborn
obscuring the root
of our existence.

Leaf by leaf.

sinha murari — Sun, 20 Sep 2026 23:42:19 +0100

The Arithmetic of Addition

While working out the arithmetic of addition,
one day I looked around
and saw mountains of power.
Buried beneath them, crushed to death,
lay a tiny, insignificant me.
Seeing this,
my own eternal trellis of Malabar spinach
covered its mouth
and quietly laughed.
________________________________________
The Arithmetic of Subtraction

While working out the arithmetic of subtraction,
one day I looked at the page of my household
and found that nothing remained
that could still be called me.
Everything was new, everything was pure,
the sky was generous and boundless,
the fields stretched to the horizon,
and at the corner of my lips
clung, ever so lightly,
a Baul song.
________________________________________
The Arithmetic of Broken Stairs

The more I give myself
to this arithmetic of broken stairs,
the more shards of broken glass
gather all around me.
My entire body is cut,
blood running freely.
I look at my face in the mirror
and cannot recognize
the mug staring back at me.
________________________________________
This War

In the heat of life's additions and subtractions,
the door to the sanctum
has already burned away.
Now, riding upon the chariot
of broken-stair arithmetic,
I have entered the battlefield
without shield or sword.
This war, that war,
one war after another,
a war where there is
neither victory nor defeat,
only the struggle
that continues.
________________________________________
A Happy Household

Well, how wonderful.
Now I understand.
A happy household
is seen far more often
in stories and novels
than it is in real life.
________________________________________
After the Gathering

After arguing at length
with friends over theories and facts,
I look down
and find, lying inside the teacup,
the cold body
of a social revolution.
________________________________________
The Leaves

When leaves dry up,
the tree shakes them off.
Every leaf knows this.
How strange that, for the tree,
they harbor no remorse.
Why should they?
By then,
they have already become
friends with the earth.

DOWN MEMORY LANE. Part three

Alan J Ripley — Sun, 20 Sep 2026 22:37:31 +0100

Lacyxdevine. I would just like to say,
us poeteers miss you each day.
The banter we shared over time,
was always sweet and sublime.

I still read your lovely poetry,
as I'm sure if you can, read mine.
we would find the odd laugh,
that we would share every time

I know that I never thought it would end,
and thought I'd let you know. Wherever
you are we will always be friends.

Expecially thanks for the rhymes.
you made about Ken and me.

Written with love and sorrow,
I'm certain we may meet sometimes,
somewhere amongst the tomorrow's.

With love from carol and me,
and the rest of my tribe.