a ballet of light
weaves golden threads
across the canvas of night.

the fabric of soul and sky
elusive dancers

wonder    alive at the edge of eternity

unspoken poetry breathed in my sigh
words elusive, alive within

beauty poetry
poetry        breathed in my sigh???

words elusive

a tear that never fell
shimmering in twilight

left me searching
a shadow running from the sun

The Sea That Sparkles
A poem: By Olivia Williams
——————————————-

Sunset spills like melting gold,
Tumbling through my dry fingers—
Sifting the soft grain through my palm,
Some sand—almost forming a mold.  

Shells— sea worn, colors seeming to bleed through their rough patches.

Waves nudging along the sandy shore,
Seeming to lap the surface
In white foam,  
Slowly hushing and sighing
As they swirl together,
leaving shells—
More intertwining—catching on the fine sand,
Forever sifting just beyond the water's edge.

The lighthouse glows,
Casting light—
A silent voice that flows to those beyond the shallow waters,  
Holding the sea in place—
Just in case.

Soft humming surrounds
As cardinals glide—
conversing together in mounds
On the lighthouse top,
Attracted by the growing night.

Knowing sleep is eminent,
So they hum goodbyes,
Murmuring together as
Everything settles after crossing ties.

Still— Beaming light slices into
Teal—cascading waters,
Lighting a path of watercolored flame— lighting the last of foaming waves.
Never seeming to falter,
As if there stretching to reach me,
At the last grin of the sun.

Sea spreads molten pastels—  
Tints of sapphire, moss, and soft yellow,
Open valleys underneath
The sheltered coral,
Shuffling in place as tropical-hued fish,
Cluttering around it
While seeming to sway like bells.

Each wave of color layering
—unlocking a key.
Like a canvas—a small brushstroke in motion,
holding life only few ever see.

The sun,
Scattering jewels like Ember
across the fading horizon.
The clouds drifting,  
Leaving a Crystal sky
Where the shades of sunset settle,
To look like glass
—The view never seems to lie.

Distant murmurs of
Tide’s steady tune,
A salty tang sifts
the ocean air,
A faint scent of seaweed, and tulips  
Scatter the sea side,
Never leaving the beach bare.

Tiny ***** scurry about the sand,
Forming miniature shadows—
While creeping through crevasses
Of water-worn rocks,
Sinking into the land.

What's left of foam still laces the shore,
Like woven-textured fabric
—foam bubbling more.
  
Light bends one last time,  
Never faltering over the ledge.
Filling the sky
Where the last of day
Meets the eternal edge.

—till morning
Waves slither to an end,
Leaving any small damage
On the shore to mend,

Night drapes,
Stars shimmer softly.
Sea breathing–a soft and slow drum.
Sea’s quiet hum—
The softest sound of day,
Drifting patiently
For the next day to come,
To eternally illuminate the water
In miracles and chrystal’s.

As no matter the day,
The sea sparkles—
Either way.

Prairie
-a poem:
Olivia I. WILLIAMS
———————
Cocktails tumbling —
Softly rumbling —
Tender, mumbling wind
Long grass
Grazes the woodchip trail
As morning grows past
And the sun prevails.
Immense oak trees
Tower and sway
Over clovers.
While whispering streams
Fill the day.
The oak
Sends shadows
Stretching across
The sunlit grass.
Though sun still
Lights the eager flowers —
It's one true task.
Worn oak lodge
Nestled in thoughts —
Dreams.
Moss on the steps
Small treads,
Leading to a true home
Of rest.
Inside — well kept
Floor-length light
Curtains of linen,
Billowing white.


The scent of firewood,
Lemon,
And lavender
Spills into every room.
Sunlight rests
Comfortably on the oak-paneled
Walls.
warmth resides
Flickering gently like campfire flame
In bedroom shadows —
Fire remaining tame.
A clock ticks on
With silent grace
Amongst the music
In the
Gentle, silenced place.
Teacups gather
Along the counter
From morning’s start
Still warm,
Resting against the
Oakwood —
Like integrated art.
The breeze glides in —
Stretching through
The yellow tulips.
Drifting near the prairie
Where deer settle along the creek,
Sipping from the teal cascade
While bending among grass
And settling in
The shadows spread —
Not even the rustling speaks.
Squirrels play —
Once they scrambled,
Now they stay.
Soon, the prairie settles
Warmth of sun retreats,
Sinking in ocean-blue sky
And cotton candy clouds
With new—
Starry night above.  
Faint golden glow
Of the lamp
Among the licking
Light of fire.
In the night,
As the last stars settle to rest,
A tender voice clears —
Singing as the sun sets
In pastel paint,
Voice elegantly swaying
A soft tune.
By the creek
Loons all coo,
Flying in tune together
Like a fairy.
The last gentle note —
Not leaving any weight
Of the day carried.
At last,
The day ends
On the
Prairie.

tulip blaze of red—
his hand still in the petals,
train whistle fading

Purity won't ever

be devastated.

The purer

you become,

people find a back

for you.

The path of least

resistance, is the

quietest truth.

This lilting night
in a world still trembling,
streets sag with silence,
the hush tastes of smoke.

A crow cuts low,
black wing against orange,
leans into the wind,
folds, veers.

Above the trees,
the sky wears a copper bruise,
clouds thick as wool,
the light already retreating.

Air carries the edge of change-
sharp as bitten tin,
wet as stone on the tongue.

All sound brittle:
screen door whining,
tires on gravel,
a match struck to nothing.

your page turning,
the small sigh after,
your breath, mine,
keeping time with the dark.

Before sleep I knot a cardboard tag
to my big toe with baling twine.
Sometimes I think of stapling it -
ritual wants a clean edge.

She tolerates my oddities:
a posterboard of errands above the sink,
tea mug with its brown ring I refuse to clean,
I stand too close when the train arrives,
or climb ladders with one hand full.

Last summer a rogue wave flung me under;
I surfaced broken, collarbone split,
came home wrapped and aching.
She kissed the bruise and laughed,
as if I’d slipped the ocean’s grip,
as if the sea had lost its claim.

I call them accidents to sleep easier,
yet I flood the stove with gas,
strike a match, laugh at the plume,
convinced the fire means I’m alive
even as it scorches my hand.

At night she circles the bed,
tugging at my toe tag
as if it could bind me to her,
carrying me into the cabin,
a weight she won’t release.