sunrise unveiled a promise of treasure
demure as petals enjoining midday
grey clouds thin in billowy summer breeze
freeze a moment before this day consumes


sunset reveals firefly melodies
meandering starlit rivers flow,
flowered evening fragrances wafting;
welcomes a momentous nocturne

all the voices  
gathered in my digital scream  
somewhere on a site  
devoted to stream ,live  
i wield words aflame  
i share and laugh with joy  
alone but never lonely  
look at what the web has  
given me  
a liberated mind  
touched by global threads  
something that shines  
brighter than any daytime opery

Picking up the internal slack
and bring about an inward tension
that emboldens for one to face the day
and the prospects of oncoming ones.
Where wet cheeks, are visible cues
of flipping calendars, leaf upon leaf:
existing surrenders
and like a sparkled after-rain,
brings a moist crystality
that fills in the cracks
and mends the broken places.

does anyone drink tea anymore?
or pick up what fell on the floor?
three-second rule no longer?
selfied self-image now stronger?
being left to our smart devices
such coloured, fruitbowl choices, or
wardrobe change for inner voices?

"The Empire‐Skeptic and History Class"

Your Aeneas builds an empire
on exile and sorrow—what of the cities
he conquers, the peoples displaced?

Transformation has a cost.
By glorifying his ‘spark,’
we risk overlooking the suffering
ignited in his wake.

"The Meagre String"

In a dusty corner
the final string trembles—
a solitary note aching
                   to become a verse.

It breathes its solitude
                  
                  into splintered wood,
praying its fragment of promise
                   still sounds sacred,
even missing the choir’s embrace.





.

a harrowed reference = photojournalist’s bucket
brimming with raw film conveying targeted wishes—
blank frames sparking imaginings

think of me, of us, some time
bandying of thoughts will do
let them sidle up close to you
just as we did not so long ago

then come and gaze again at

the light residing in my eyes
then tell me if your reflection
shines with crystalline truth
some time, think of us, of me

give up shallying; on finding and sharing
what could be thought of as inner beauty
when these hirsute thoughts bristle again
berating what little of self regard remains
it’s but an exaggeration to point out hate
when clearly it wasn’t my poem but myself
that lay on literature’s butcher-block altar

for whom threadbare scraps
are treasures under your table
deserts, ever undulated dunes

in picture-book perfect gales

stripping away like sandpaper
perhaps the sting of salt rain
shall sterilize this wanting within

.


sunrise unveiled a promise of treasure
demure as petals enjoining midday
grey clouds thin in billowy summer breeze
freeze a moment before this day consumes


sunset reveals firefly melodies
meandering starlit rivers flow,
flowered evening fragrances wafting;
welcomes a momentous nocturne


.

people are our real legacy;
one day sure, entire poems
shall have been forgotten,
while remains a phrase or
a feeling drawn from wells
deeper than memory can
reach, or device can retrieve
much like thread-diving as
we scamper for posts buried
by traffic and flood posters…
follow, subscribe, or friend
buttons can only do so much
so we hang on to what we
have and hold dear, today
saving each precious moment
if bookmarked sentiments
are promises all will be well
we’ll boldly breathe again

enough of you
and all of me

before letting go
this consider--
once posted, one
may thus wonder
is there a reader at the other end of this poem?
oh, sure there is

but the privilege
of knowing their thought process and journey
is theirs to keep
or to you share
at their behest
so now let’s see

enough from me
and now to you

Were it not for one to play buffoon

or to say of none we're way too soon

involved in peddling mass hysteria

when it's been held in each posterior

consciousness - makers of peace are

blessed. So ever to be near or far

we at our disposal have in hand

a power to write upon our sand.

Discarded thoughts collide,
cast aside once too many times;
now stride across crumpled sheets,
from where quenching springs rise
fuel that pen and paper set alight-

A battered note, a torn-out page,
explode in fervent rage…each
critic's stab, each cut so deep
pick axes unearthing jewels
rough but worth their keep.

Is remorse a prison to the soul
the sole utterance of reproach
that if not to myself be True
the possible best in life accrue

what if regret creeps on the morning
a thief stalking the shadow of dawn
(re)fresh from bare motive drawing
crystal arteries of a day that is new

or shall we allow the mind meander
let it's "work" find itself crowning
there in its core uncover simplicity
strip away a mournful state of heart ?

An unlit candle,
a matchstick, waiting in vain—
neither will ignite,
unless one strikes the other,
shadows linger, dim and cold.

“Veins of Mist”
by arqios

The hills exhale in threads— pale veins of mist
                            tracing the pulse of morning.
Beneath the hush, stones remember the weight
                    of footsteps that never returned.
A crow calls once, and silence folds a cloak around it.
The sky does not answer. It only listens
             with the patience of old gods.

.


revolutions of the second hand
innumerable to the watchful eye
has not comforted this bruising
nor can this heart run far enough


away from the pulsing gangrene
when off the darkest mile it tread
in the cooling of a fading day that
gentle crushing fixed completely


drowning in despondent smiles
wafting wavelets forlorn, wailing,
whispering affections now silent
wanting a happier, more innocent time


.

Once prismatic brilliance;
brilliant only through borrowed light;

alone again in darkness, glum;
gleams, instant companion of night --

blind to grief and deaf to joy,
save by pristine thought, on lonely height:

a lone, canine howl reports and echoes,
as nocturnal critters hide, out of sight.*



_✒
●○
°

when the quiet breaks


i learned to love the silence
not because it felt like peace—
but because it never lied to me.

the noise left bruises,
every laugh a little jagged
every “i’m fine” cracked at the edges
and every promise wore someone else's face.

but silence? she didn’t pretend.
she just sat beside me while my hands trembled,
while my breath forgot how to stay.

people say healing is loud
but mine looked like folded laundry
and rooms i didn’t run from.





.

Snowflakes fall, a silent lullaby,
Blankets of white beneath twilight sky,
Bare branches etched in frost’s sigh,
Cold winds weave through the night,
Stars alight, crisp and bright,
Warm fireside light,
Frozen plight,
Deep night,
Still.

candle in the window
for the son of a widow
now left orphaned, save

for a bejewelled crown
whose issue once secured
now stands a former flame

for want of royal surrogacy
where an uncle demurred
now twice an heir found


candle once in the wind
on a window sill still, sits
once, always the people’s princess