"Home" is a word that echoes in my mind
A haunting melody, a cruel design
A place where shadows dance, where love's a lie
Where the heart beats with fear, and tears never dry
I've known the weight of hands that meant to hold
But crushed instead, leaving scars that never unfold
The silence screams, a cacophony of pain
A symphony of shattered dreams, a refrain
I've searched for solace in the darkest night
A fleeting peace that's lost in the morning light
The ghosts of memories haunt me still
Echoes of a love that turned to bitter pill
I yearn for a place where I can be free
Where the weight of expectations isn't crushing me
A place where I can breathe, where my soul can rest
But it's a mirage, a fleeting dream, a distant quest
In this wilderness of broken dreams and shattered hopes
I'll wander, lost, with heart that beats like a rope
I'll follow the shadows, the whispers in my ear
Until I find the silence, the stillness that's so dear
Perhaps in the darkness, I'll find my way
To a place where love isn't a four-letter word for pain
Where home isn't a prison, but a sanctuary true
Where I can be me, without fear, without shame, anew.
You never cared about me really.
It hurts to finally open my eyes and see.
Now I just feel so stupid and lonely.
I am nothing but a fool to society.
Life is full of steps and stages
As we learn what it is to be alive.
And every stage is marked
By the recognition that we were wrong
About what it is we now know.
Like a box within a box
Or nesting Russian dolls
Continually we open onto a new world
A new level of understanding.
We talk of insects and crustaceans
Reptiles and amphibians shedding their skin
But we do it too, just more subtly and subjectively,
And as more evolved beings, continuously.
What is it we shed besides old dead skin?
Old dead ideas, outgrown, outlived
Making way for the new
Slowly changing the programmed self
Into a newer version, gradually adjusting
Our identity
With software updates
That continually need the bugs worked out.
When does this all end?
Never, Life says
With every new layer of skin.
(9/13/25)
Words vouched for my good
Made me sulk, feel very bad
In days of childhood.
Today, things do make me sad
Which, in cool silence I brood.
We call it old age
When we subtract more than add
Things on life’s last page,
Dwell on few days we feel glad,
Days not, in muted hush mad.
_______________________
Tanka (Senryu + couplet) |06.09.2025| childhood, life, old age, brood, bad, good,
Note: An old man broods…
Will memories I have remain?
It is my fear that they will not;
for children think I am insane,
and what I say is best forgot.
Yellow goblet blooms of crocus wild
I ran among, once as a child.
Rushing back with my shout
drinks held aloft skew-whiff.
I was spun all around
like a wild water spout,
caught by brush
flush with haste
shame's a gush
blush disgraced
crowd's hush-hush
surely, she was not the new boss
our heads swiveled almost in unison
this woman was way too polished for this place
chic in her sophisticated oversized green hat with pink polka dots
Who wore something like that in the sixties?
Her suit was a combination of stripes and dots.
Also a big no no in the sixties.
a BIG no No.
Oh, my gosh, was she smoking a CIGAR?
Cigars are for men.
I turned my head to look at my friend.
Her mouth was hanging open like mine.
Is that a diamond earring? I wondered.
And on only one ear!
Who is this fabulous creature?
I could not wait to find out!
I need some help, I'm requesting,
That I understood, I believe
I was in this hitch of unworthiness
Because life had thrown me a switch.
The dope was nasty and pitiless
Trying to escape this world of hostility.
After what had happened that day
My most sinful fear was yet to come by play.
I wasn't being supportive when,
I thought I was living in hell
I ask our God for some direction
Because of the brick I had thrown away.
Please show me the lesson, my Lord,
That I am supposed to learn
If he hadn't answered when He did.
I should have burned.
Though I felt a hand on me,
I knew my goal was to be intense
It was all about to be rhapsodized
With this, he was of nobility.
Zambia was my mother—
shaped like a butterfly resting in the heart of Africa,
her wings curved not by nature alone,
but by the lines of empires
who came to take what was never theirs.
They called her Northern Rhodesia,
after tasting the sweetness of her soil
and stealing the copper from her veins.
Her rivers run wild with spirit—
the Zambezi roaring with ancient songs,
Victoria Falls spilling the Smoke that Thunders,
blessing the weary and healing the broken.
She faces the Scorpio Sun,
and her children, like copper,
are strong yet quiet—
holding centuries in their silence.
Kenneth Kaunda once walked her soil,
weeping for Africa when she was in chains,
rejoicing when she rose again.
Zambia holds the bones of my ancestors
and the dreams of the unborn.
Her wilderness breathes with lions,
her sunsets bleed crimson into the night.
Africa cradles her,
and she cradles me.
When I return to dust,
let me rest in her copper-red earth—
for Zambia was my Mother,
and Africa is my Heaven.
Dr. Moody was discouraged, his job had taken a turn.
This was the third plague that hit Minnesota in twelve years.
People were dying in ditches, seeking relief from their open sores.
Frozen corpses with gaping mouths greeted him from town to town.
Optimism had died about three years back
he had no idea why he survived.
Three plagues, and he was one of the few who was still mobile.
Some were in wheelchairs; others had their limbs amputated.
A few had gone blind; these plagues were unpredictable and fierce.
He stopped in front of the farmhouse; checked the address one more time.
Got out his equipment and began the slow heartfelt climb onto their porch.
Since the plagues had started, he wondered if this was a plea for death call.
“In here,” a woman called. Her voice sounded hoarse.
He walked in and observed three huddled figures on the couch.
“Not them,” she told him.
Confiding that she knew she did not have much time.
She wanted him to raise her children. Dr. Moody was speechless.
He had already opened his home to fourteen homeless children.
This plague was no joke.
as Kyle was walking down the aisle
he tasted disgusting salty green bile
looked up and saw a weird smile on Lyle
Feeling vile, he started to dial.
His bride Wilhemina was dressed in style.
she outclassed him by a city mile
he ran, jumping a massive wood pile
did not return for quite a while
in the meantime, the groomsman named Lyle
wooed Wilhemina in glorious courting style
they picked out dishes and kitchen floor tile
forever a bachelor remained old lonely Kyle
My next verse, too, was not a great hit.
And that ain't even the half of it.
They said, "You call yourself a poet?"
"I never did! I'm not! I know it!"
"With crap like this, you really show it."
The Good was Taken out of the Summer
The good was taken out of the summer,
With her garden patch left abandoned,
Lettuce heads and scallions gone wild,
Her sweet summer plans all spoiled.
The good was taken out of the summer,
With green fly festering her roses,
Overwatered orchids on the sill
As her plastic bread bowl lay still.
The good was taken out of the summer,
With Hunter, her dog left in waiting
For her voice, her footsteps, her care
And the fridge in the kitchen left bare.
The good was taken out of the summer,
Put on pause til her homecoming came,
While in convalescence she lay
In a nursing home, day after day.
The good was put back into summer,
When she returned to where she belonged,
To her garden patch, Hunter and flowers,
To sit,
To be still,
To be ours.
Kim's song in French
Lent son du saxophone ; je m'allonge
et j'écoute les paroles du bon vieux temps,
quand Paris était à la mode,
et que le temps de l'amour est révolu
pour la vieille fille sirotant du vin
à la terrasse d'un café ; fixant,
sommes-nous, les yeux d'un tableau
pluvieux et coloré ; romantiquement
par le son frémissant du saxophone ;
ses notes flottant sur la Seine.
Gouttes de pluie grises, bleues et cerisiers en fleurs ; un sourire subtil sur des lèvres rouges,
rappelant la beauté et les heures passées ;
claquement de talons et belle robe.
Paroles et vocables posés et assurés
régularisent mon cœur, réchauffent mes pulsations.
Une voix fredonne, tandis que les doigts du phoniste s'agitent,
fourmillent tous les sens ; variateur de cabernet.
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