I loved you in the silent ways—
In passing glances, not bouquets.
In stolen time, in coffee sips,
In words I never let slip past my lips.

You never asked, I never said,
But still, you lived inside my head.
A gentle ache I couldn't name,
A spark too soft to turn to flame.

Some are most creative and beyond comprehension
For they are that talented
Some have that magic naturally
Some hoping to create and find their way
Their impact makes us better writers
You can agree to disagree
Just read and enjoy
The pleasure of reading and enjoying the talent is so much better
than the so -called talent we tune into to see
Not asking you to tune out but tune into what happens here
Hello Poetry Poets
Thanks

You smell like gardenia
as in late spring.

I'm walking away
for I might pluck thee—
& you’ll wither by dusk
after a day.

For thy sake
I'm walking away
& waiting for another
fierce bloom of May.

A Sunday afternoon unfolds, soft and unhurried, like a ribbon untied. Malbec, velvet and dark, spilling its whispers into the glass.

The film begins, its story weaving, a tapestry of shadows and light. Characters speak of love, loss, and the ache of dreams unfound; their words mirrored in crimson ripples.

Each sip a revelation, smooth as silk, each scene a moment etched in time. The wine hums of distant vines, of lands kissed by sun and shadow, where laughter mingles with the soil.

Outside, the world hums faintly, but here, a stillness lingers, sacred, a communion of story and sip. A Sunday framed in simplicity, wrapped in the richness of Malbec’s embrace. And so you linger—until the credits roll.

And then...

As the tiring night quietly forgot
The dying of the sun
rose the splendid moon
to bless the night

3 am on an October night
As I opened the windows
overlooking the treacherous life
of a man in his early sixties

a life of inks and papers
a newspaperman
In the digital age

of rushing days
and hectic afternoons
late-night cafes
and morning blues

I remembered
every tick and clang
of the quiet sound of travelling time

your trust is truthfully misplaced
my acts, are falsely praised
i feel my brain being stretched
from the inside out
my rotting flesh
has an unbearable stench
the squelch of my remains
my blood, a liquid courage
or an act of self-sacrificing cowardice?