There are tiny cracks,
working their way down
his back.

His hands are rough,
as though they
are turning to stone.

His heartbeat slows,
the edges beginning to harden
draining his life one pulse at a time.

He is nothing,
he cannot feel,
he cannot see,
he cannot live.

He has turned into a statue,
forever immortalized,
but never free.

turn back the clocks, rewind it
there's something else behind this
not that hard to find it
but hard enough to fight it

I can see the angels moving side by side,
Following the movement of the cloudy heavens,
Moving endlessly to the voice of the Almighty.

With their garments as white as snow
And their wings moving to the resounding heavens,
With beautiful smiles on their faces.

— Quinn ✍️💖

You make me cry,
In a good way.

I've never felt anything like this before,
Cradled in your loving arms,
Don't need therapy.

The time we spend together,
Is better.

Le monde attend un nouveau Dieu.
Joseph de Maistre.


Je m'adresse à tout l'Univers,
Après David, le roi psalmiste.
Oui, Madame, en ces quelques vers,
Je m'adresse à tout l'Univers.
Sur les continents et les mers,
Si tant est qu'un athée existe,
C'est moi, dis-je, à tout l'Univers,
Après David, le roi psalmiste.

Je me fous bien de tous vos dieux,
Ils sont jolis, s'ils vous ressemblent,
Et bons à foutre dans les lieux.
Je me fous bien de tous vos dieux,
Je me fous même du bon vieux,
L'unique, devant qui tous tremblent ;
Je me fous bien de tous vos dieux,
Ils sont jolis, s'ils vous ressemblent.

Je ris du Dieu des bonnes gens,
S'il en est encor par le monde ;
Avec les gens intelligents.
Je ris du Dieu des bonnes gens.
Sacré Dieu ! quels airs indulgents !
Quel gros cul, quelle panse ronde !
Mais... pour les seules bonnes gens,
S'il en est encor par le monde.

Je me fous aussi de celui
Des grands philosophes, très drôles,
Qui parfois se prennent pour lui.
Je me fous aussi de celui
Dont l'incommensurable ennui
Voudrait peser sur nos épaules.
Je me fous aussi de celui
Des grands philosophes, très drôles.

Je plains fort, vous entendez bien,
Tout homme qui dit : Dieu, sur terre,
Indou, musulman ou chrétien,
Je le plains, vous entendez bien ;
Le déiste aussi, qui n'est rien
Dans l'église ou le phalanstère.
Je plains fort, vous entendez bien,
Tout homme qui dit : Dieu sur terre.

Je suis comme le vieux Blanqui
Je dis aussi : « Ni Dieu ni maître. »
Ni maîtresse... c'est riquiqui.
Je suis comme le vieux Blanqui.
Je me fous de n'importe qui.
Je jette tout par la fenêtre,
Et je me fous bien de Blanqui,
Comme de son « Ni Dieu ni maître. »

Je n'en ai qu'un, mais assez bon
Nom de Dieu ! pour que je l'écule,
Votre vrai Dieu, Dieu sans... rayon.
Je n'en ai qu'un, mais assez bon :
Le monde entier, ce grand capon,
Vit dans la peur de sa férule.
Je n'en ai qu'un mais assez bon
Nom de Dieu ! pour que je l'écule.

L'un ou l'autre mot m'est égal,
Si mon langage est clair, Madame.
Être clair c'est le principal.
L'un ou l'autre mot m'est égal.
Mais l'autre était grossier pas mal,
Et... j'ai le respect de la femme.
L'un ou l'autre mot m'est égal.
Si mon langage est clair, Madame.

they are mine
their beautiful dark head
their deep brown eyes
their caramel cheeks
their sudden shrieks
their torrential questioning
their soft hands moving
their skinny legs wriggling
they were born
as a she
they belong to me
as them
I belong to them
they are mine
they/their/them
their love all mine
all my love for them

Noise, all I hear, this loud head,
Suggestions for all the ways to be
A vacuum, a void, with things left unsaid,
A voice unheard, left in the dark,
Tastes unseen, fear that they'd disappear
After a while, differences seem stark,
A clean room, on a bad day, appears a mess,
The walls seem to talk, with silence looming,
The quiet beckons me to a game of chess,
"How long can you play", it asks, "till you stop?
I can go on, it's my favourite game,
Will you keep going, until you drop,
Until you're nothing, till you forget your name?"

wear gloves on your hands,
leaving your eyes free to speculate
and your mind to record
the life of the plant;
and the life of the one who nurtures and tends

follow-from the fallow soil
to my edible plated consumption,
from the baby bud nipping
to sharp crack shot at picking,
to my tongue licking
both your produce and you

you may feed me poems
when the real harvesting is done,
grown in your own private plot,
from you, my good fellow,
follow with love delivered to
my expecting fallow-soul,
awaiting your seeding me,
and I,  
you...

You found me broken and on these ruins you built a temple
and i sought repentance as You refined this rock in Your holy furnace

On a sailboat
On Lake Superior
This shimmering body of water and I
are separated only
by a thin layer of sunblock,
a pair of shades

On a sailboat
On Lake Superior
Moments move as slowly
as the low breeze nudging the sail
I know not the year
or state I’m in out here
I know only
that I am the water
and the water is me

To Do Lists of life on land
cannot find me
sheltered here
by waves
Cradled here by currents
older than any human care
I am free as I float
Agendas, ambitions, anxieties—all inferior
On this sailboat
On sacred Lake Superior

© 2025 SincerelyJoanWrites. All rights reserved.

Dare dash the dust from the room
The canary in the coffin doomed
Crack the legs to make it fit
Awful feeling in your pit

The days taste of kerosene
The bees are gone there's no sting
While the albatross questions why
The walrus now has to die

Yank the heart from it's wrack
Beat the drums tack tack tack
Time's kept in a bottle by the sea
So was tossed the child so wee

I dared thee to write it down
You , the orangutan face of a clown
Kick the plastic down the road
Make the others tariff the load

There were nights I folded into myself
A silence not of peace, but pause,
Where memory clung like sweat to old Regrets,
And the dark was just thick enough to Speak.
A younger version of me still walks there,
Half-shouting at ghosts,
Half-sure he knows better.

The road I paved was not always stone…
Sometimes glass,
Sometimes the brittle hush of unspoken Apologies.
My hands, calloused from more than labor,
Have carried the sharp edges of Consequence,
Have held a child’s future like a fragile flame
And nearly dropped it once or twice.

Fatherhood did not come with a compass.
It came like weather,
Sudden and vast;
With no promise of shelter, only sky.
And still, I stepped out.
Still, I walked.

There were questions I answered with my Absence,
Lessons I taught by stumbling.
And yet each tear I have dried
Has felt like redemption.
Each scraped knee, a liturgy
In the cathedral of trying again.

You learn that love,
Real love,
Isn’t found in the perfection of the path
But in turning back for the small hand that Trusts you still.

Now, she laughs.
And in her laughter is a map
Of every right thing I did
Despite myself.

And I know,
No matter how far I wandered from grace,
It was worth it.
Not for a second chance,
But for the first time I truly listened
To what love sounds like
When it calls you “Dad.”

I’m weary of your winds,
soft whispers that promise fire,
then vanish in the hush of “just friends.”

You speak like a lover in the moonlight,
then vanish at dawn with your walls drawn high.
Yet when I smile at another flame,
your silence burns louder than words.

What is this dance you lead me in?
One step forward, two steps back,
your heart a maze I cannot read.

Am I a passing breeze in your garden,
or a root you dare not let grow?

Speak, Lily
not in riddles, not in sighs.
Tell me where I stand in your sky,
before I drift too far to return.

Me

Stand before your mirror.
Look yourself in the eye.
Don’t blink.
Don’t flinch.

Ask the question
you fear the most.

If you dare to listen,
truth won’t lie.

Sunshine on the waterline always seems to ease my mind
Gentle breeze and the drifting clouds, far away from any crowds
Sunshine warm on my face, I can’t think of a better place
Rolling waves and the sunset still are the only things I feel
Sunset brings out the nighttime sky, starlight shines as time goes by
Nighttime fades to the new sunrise, silence breaks with morning birds’ cry
Sunshine on the waterline always seems to ease my mind
Let sky stay blue and my heart be true, I want to spend my time with you
I don’t need anybody except what I’ve got, I just need a little, not a lot
Just give me sunshine on the waterline, set me free to ease my mind

Whoops, time to fill the pages I missed
I’ll use the one about when we first kissed
Our love was young, impulsive, good anytime
I am always yours, will you always be mine
Here we are, much later than before
I am still here; I only want you more

Writing poetry is like making love:
if you have to force it, stop.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I can still taste the cigarette,
The flavour grafted to your skin.

You held my face,
Yellowed finger tips.

Beauty indescribable,
Ash stains down your shirt.

Every word you whispered,
All smoke and hurt.

Sometimes my muse only sees the dark, he fills my pen with pain
Makes me write sad little lines, and makes tears fall like rain
He’s only trying to spill my heart, so I get poetic relief
He makes me think these things, but it doesn’t change my belief
I believe that I know myself, there’s no one else to blame
I keep writing with my muse, we play a poetic game

a girl with books
wobbling as she tries to balance them
she cant be older than seven

A boy in the adult mystery section
repeating to himself
"I need a boys book not a girls book"

A mother with her two children
following her like ducklings
leaving havoc as they pass

A girl and her mom
reading aloud
in the middle of the cooking isle

¡De qué sirve al triste la filosofía!
Kant o Schopenhauer o Nietzche o Bergson...
¡Metafisiqueos!

                       En tanto, Ana mía,
te me has muerto, y yo no sé todavía
dónde ha de buscarte mi pobre razón.
¡Metafisiqueos, pura teoría!
¡Nadie sabe nada de nada: mejor
que esa pobre ciencia confusa y vacía,
nos alumbra el alma, como luz del día,
el secreto instinto del eterno amor!

No ha de haber abismo que ese amor no ahonde,
y he de hallarte. ¿Dónde? ¡No me importa dónde!
¿Cuándo? No me importa..., ¡pero te hallaré!
Si pregunto a un sabio, "¡Qué sé yo!", responde.
Si pregunto a mi alma, me dice: "¡Yo sé!"

my family yells their names,
they say i look
like them, all the same
are you looking for another
face in mine
or do you hope
i carry their essence,
spirit,
the family line

i have these voices in my head

with me when i’m awake or in bed
when i’m smiling and happy
they come and break my peace
telling me weird things
that make me lose my ease

they tell me i won’t get better
they tell me i don’t matter
they tell me one day ill be dead
so why not get it over with instead

the voices are evil and cold
but they comfort me when i’m all alone
they tell me to do things to myself
and be sure that no one knows

oh the voices in my head
they walk me to my death

jumping from the present moment
takes imagination
before your body catches up
and you find yourself in a neverending future

Udii tra il sonno le ciaramelle,
** udito un suono di ninne nanne.
Ci sono in cielo tutte le stelle,
ci sono i lumi nelle capanne.
Sono venute dai monti oscuri
le ciaramelle senza dir niente;
hanno destata nè suoi tuguri
tutta la buona povera gente.
Ognuno è sorto dal suo giaciglio;
accende il lume sotto la trave;
sanno quei lumi d'ombra e sbadiglio,
di cauti passi, di voce grave.
Le pie lucerne brillano intorno,
là nella casa, qua su la siepe:
sembra la terra, prima di giorno,
un piccoletto grande presepe.
Nel cielo azzurro tutte le stelle
paion restare come in attesa;
ed ecco alzare le ciaramelle
il loro dolce suono di chiesa;
suono di chiesa, suono di chiostro,
suono di casa, suono di culla,
suono di mamma, suono del nostro
dolce e passato pianger di nulla.
O ciaramelle degli anni primi,
d'avanti il giorno, d'avanti il vero,
or che le stelle son là sublimi,
conscie del nostro breve mistero;
che non ancora si pensa al pane,
che non ancora s'accende il fuoco;
prima del grido delle campane
fateci dunque piangere un poco.
Non più di nulla, sì di qualcosa,
di tante cose! Ma il cuor lo vuole,
quel pianto grande che poi riposa,
quel gran dolore che poi non duole;
sopra le nuove pene sue vere
vuol quei singulti senza ragione:
sul suo martòro, sul suo piacere,
vuol quelle antiche lagrime buone!

"Gender equality is like clapping hands - it's only possible when both sides make an effort."

كنا في يوم رمز الحضارة والعلم هكذا يقولون  
اختلفنا وتشاجرنا وصار في قلبنا ملايين الظنون
ألم يكن نبينا رمز الأخلاق وديننا في القلب والعيون
تشردنا وقتلنا بفتنة لم تكن لتنتهي إلا وتبدأ مرة أخرى بجنون
لم اعد افهم سبب الشجار وصرنا نقول ألف مرة كنا ونكون
قلي من أنت أقول لك أنا إنسان هجر من وطنه عسى أن يجد حياة ويكون
ولكن يجب أن نبدأ من الصفر ألف مرة ونعيد ونكرر لعلهم يفهمون
ونتعلم أشياء ما كان من المفروض أن نتعلمها
ونصبح شيئا ولا شيئا ونضيع في عالم كبير غير محدود
هل تعيدني إلى حارتي وإلى كمبيوتري القديم المكسور
تعيدني إلى زمن كنا أخوة وكنا أصدقاء والحب يغمر القلب ويسهر الجفون
هل تعيدني إلى الزاهرة القديمة عندما كنت طفلا وأمسك الطبشور
هل تعيدني إلى بيتي في اليرموك وبيت جدي المليء بالعطور
هل تعيد لي روحي وشبابي وقلبي الدافئ الحنون
هل تعيدني حتى لا أكتب قصيدتي والتمس الخوف فيها لهذا اليوم
مع الأسف هذا نصيبي أن أكون جنديا في العلم أحصن نفسي من يوم أسود غير معلوم
لا أريد هذا أريد السلام لقلبي الميت وأريد عيونا مليئة بالدموع
أريد حبا حقيقية وأريد أن يبرد عقلي ويرتاح في هدوء
لا أريد أن ابحث عن حلول لمشاكل لا تنتهي أريد فقط أن أكون
هل هناك من يفهمني ويضع لي النقاط على الحروف
أعدني فأنا في هذا العالم غريب ومجنون