Most go through the motions daily
without thinking Sunday 8:30 AM
Walking the park with my dog
I noticed something that seemed off
The kind of thing you can’t put your finger on
It’s a feeling a thought something
that made me turn and look again

A White middle-aged man heavyset
Wearing a white ill fitted dress shirt,
a red tie  Solid black dress slacks
It’s Sunday OK I could believe that
He had the hand of a little girl five maybe six
She was dressed in really short Daisy Duke jeans
A white tank top with flowers
Her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail
Low at the base of her neck

Her head forward eyes fixed the ground
When somebody passes by I give the
Standard Greeting Hello good morning.
He replied good morning.

It’s what the child did behind her back.
That panicked me to the core
I needed to see it once more
She had left hand behind her back, her thumb in towards touching her palm
She was moving her little fingers in and out
Slow determination with urgency first,
I wasn’t sure what I saw

She looked over her shoulder
Then quickly , looked down at her hand,
Returning it behind her back and then
Glancing at him afraid he might see
head forward eyes to the ground
****** features emotionless frown
Not a word spoke, but you saw
something in her eyes  Fear
Almost a tear
The movements of the hand quicker
Fingers wider thicker
each time she looked behind at me
Attempting to get my to see
There was no interaction between
the adult male and the child except
for his controlling grip on her right hand

Next to the swings
There was this makeshift square blue tarps
Fashioned into an enclosure
He extended his hand and the hand of the little girl towards the enclosure.. A hand emerged from the within without the rest of the person being seen.
Again, her hand quickly extending and closing wildly gesturing now frantically apparent
The little girl disappeared in the enclosure

The man maintained distance waiting in silence
There were two young adult white, male and female, tattoos up and down their arms with them
Three children all boys, different ages I’m guessing
7,9,10  silent
They did not wiggle, or giggle .they did not do anything, but stand perfectly still.
Honestly I did not notice that at first.
My mind was fixated on the little girl

I approached them and said do you see that man and the little girl?  something seems off.
I explained to them about the distress hand signal
Taught to the children in schools in case they were ever abducted we’re in a situation they felt they could not speak and we’re not safe.

The young adult female unfazed said well he’s part of our church. Not They (the little girl) but He’s
I said something’s off. I hope I’m wrong
but there’s something wrong with this picture.
The the young adult woman offered no explanation or seemed concerned for the little girl’s safety .

The young adult man said nothing looked away avoiding eye contact
The three boys kept their heads
forward eyes downward
The park was empty
There was not a group of church people around
the park, it was this couple, the three boys and the man with a girl. All white.
I am not one who looks at color
however the police need
A full accurate description

I turned to the man standing there
waiting for the little girl and said
What church are you with?
He replied, LDS
I looked right in his eyes and said
that girl is in distress. There’s something wrong.. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t express concern.
. His mannerism was rigid.
My heart already pounding.

I wasn’t sure what to do.
I told him something‘s feels wrong
I offered him an opening to ease my suspicion
If everything was fine,
A normal response would’ve been
Him yelling, telling me off or
to mind my own business or
To reassure me, everything is fine Or
At least to ask me why I feel this way

Silence was not the correct response for the situation that I was escalating. I wasn’t yelling.
My voice was excited and loud I was shaking
This is where I made a mistake that could have caused those children their lives
I told him I’m going to make the call still nothing
I walked away and I was on the phone with 911

Looking right at the man
describing his features To 911 dispatch
I should not have alerted them that I was calling the police that gave them ample time
to Leave To get away

My husband said they would not do anything in broad daylight too much exposure

When the police got there, of course they were gone. That little girl‘s face etched in my memory
silent rage behind her fearful eyes.I failed her.
The police asked was the dad abusing the girl
He did not say he was the father. I told the police.
I didn’t witnessed any physical abuse.
Then what made you think something was wrong?

The little girl was doing that hand gesture they teach the children in school if they’re abducted or something’s not right oh, he said.
as if not fully impressed. I said I’ve been coming to this park for over 20 years. I have children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. I know when something‘s off and there was something off with that little girl.

We were finishing our walk as the Police Man investigated minutes only the whole situation plays over in my mind..  had I been more inquisitive to see what car they drove.
LDS little girls don’t dress like that
especially on Sunday.

I wonder
What was behind that Blue square tarp enclosures. Who was the person that pulled her in?

There’s a group of people who said on the bench passing out flyers for their church the watchtower. I told them about what I observed, and one of the ladies was quick to say just because that man said he was LDS doesn’t mean he really was and she started to tell me everything wrong with that picture. Another man at the market walking me to my car stated he saw a man dress like that. It’s one of the scams they use their dress like a business person saying they’re out of gas. They left their wallet at home whatever the story is very but they’re dressed like business men so they don’t appear homeless and are more likely to get what they want or to be seen blending in. The store clerk said stay away from those guys they’re evil.

This is a cautionary tale. We need to be observant to our surroundings children’s lives are at stake.

power is not force. it is presence that doesn’t leave.
(the one who stands and is drawn towards — not by command, but by gravity.)


i do not command —
i endure.
i do not move.
i remain —
and so, draw.

not with force,
but with gravity —
the name silence wears
when someone listens
long enough.

i am not flame.
i am the hand
that might one day
be lifted.

power is not possession.
it is presence
that does not flee
when you need
to be seen.

⋯

you do not ask —
but wish to be held.
you are not pleading,
you are forming —
a shape unfinished,
already breathing.

you do not surrender.
you open —
like a hand
where a name
wants to rest.

this is not weakness.
this is the dignity
of being known.

They call the ship 'Burden,'
An indestructible vessel,
Rival to the monsters of the sea.
It's exactly what the people needed,
For you see,
In the depths lurked a beast.
Eighty tentacles, four trade ships tall and wide,
A hundred-thirty teeth when it's smile lied.
They called it, "Kraken."
It was nothing of the likes you've seen,
Emperor of the dark sea.

The Burden could hold fifteen hundred men,
Arming harpoons, cannons, muskets, wit.
The king ordered them to turn the seas red with gore,
Call forth the Kraken,
Strike it dead.
Then to the king,
They would drag back it's head.

So come high-noon,
The ship was in place,
Above the deepest of sea caves.
Letting forth crates of bait,
Staining the waters of the sea,
Until the sailors heard a rumble,
Shake the Burden's iron shell.

Up from the waters came long river's hell,
Tentacles like spires towering well beyond the sails.
But the crew held steady,
"Tighten the ropes, arm our cannons,"
Cried the captain,
"Then fire!"
The seas filled with blood,
The sky filled with gunpowder, fractured shells,
A shriek rang out from the deeps.
The cry of death,
From the Kraken itself.
Tentacles sinking away,
"The head!" Cried the captian,
So Lutenent Lucus dived after the creature.

Tied by a rope,
Pike in hand,
The creature's head,
He began to drag.
Though, glancing over his shoulder,
Through the murk he could see,
The form of a woman swimming away.
Some curse broken, he decided,
A soul freed from grim reality.

Peace.

i do not touch. i breathe near enough for you to imagine it.
(somewhere between leash and language — i unlearn hiding.)


i do not touch.
but breath comes close enough
to become memory.

you move,
but it’s your chest
that confesses.

nothing happens,
but your bones shift
like something did.
that’s enough.
that’s control —
the kind you want
to call yours.

my hands stay
where they are.
but the room doesn’t.

you say my name
like an accident.
i answer
like a consequence.

they ask what i am.
i say:
not a man.
not a woman.
not a prayer.
a door that only opens
if you stop asking.

⋯

this is not asking.
this is return.
your shadow pressed
against mine
without needing names

i am not waiting.
i am already yours —
in the way silence owns
a scream
that never got out.

don’t call it submission.
call it:
the warmth of being seen
& not corrected.
ƃuᴉʇɔǝɹɹoɔ ʇou &
uǝǝs ƃuᴉǝq ɟo ɯɹɐʍ ǝɥʇ
:ʇᴉ llɐɔ

somewhere between leash
and language —
i unlearn hiding.

but not consecrated, nothing holy. 'bout me, excluding this bodies holies, by which I blatant blather re
my hole-ies,
the sane same places thru we ******,
intake
expiate
initiate
the most
intimate
intense
purely
human activities
breathing
excretion
speak
see
hear
make love
completely
hell
maybe  the
places
we get


consecrated

**** ain't that iron ironic

or is this just another con
centric to human existence

I.

Bien ! pillards, intrigants, fourbes, crétins, puissances !
Attablez-vous en hâte autour des jouissances !
Accourez ! place à tous !
Maîtres, buvez, mangez, car la vie est rapide.
Tout ce peuple conquis, tout ce peuple stupide,
Tout ce peuple est à vous !

Vendez l'état ! coupez les bois ! coupez les bourses !
Videz les réservoirs et tarissez les sources !
Les temps sont arrivés.
Prenez le dernier sou ! prenez, gais et faciles,
Aux travailleurs des champs, aux travailleurs des villes !
Prenez, riez, vivez !

Bombance ! allez ! c'est bien ! vivez ! faites ripaille !
La famille du pauvre expire sur la paille,
Sans porte ni volet.
Le père en frémissant va mendier dans l'ombre ;
La mère n'ayant plus de pain, dénûment sombre,
L'enfant n'a plus de lait.

II.

Millions ! millions ! châteaux ! liste civile !
Un jour je descendis dans les caves de Lille
Je vis ce morne enfer.
Des fantômes sont là sous terre dans des chambres,
Blêmes, courbés, ployés ; le rachis tord leurs membres
Dans son poignet de fer.

Sous ces voûtes on souffre, et l'air semble un toxique
L'aveugle en tâtonnant donne à boire au phtisique
L'eau coule à longs ruisseaux ;
Presque enfant à vingt ans, déjà vieillard à trente,
Le vivant chaque jour sent la mort pénétrante
S'infiltrer dans ses os.

Jamais de feu ; la pluie inonde la lucarne ;
L'œil en ces souterrains où le malheur s'acharne
Sur vous, ô travailleurs,
Près du rouet qui tourne et du fil qu'on dévide,
Voit des larves errer dans la lueur livide
Du soupirail en pleurs.

Misère ! l'homme songe en regardant la femme.
Le père, autour de lui sentant l'angoisse infâme
Etreindre la vertu,
Voit sa fille rentrer sinistre sous la porte,
Et n'ose, l'œil fixé sur le pain qu'elle apporte,
Lui dire : D'où viens-tu ?

Là dort le désespoir sur son haillon sordide ;
Là, l'avril de la vie, ailleurs tiède et splendide,
Ressemble au sombre hiver ;
La vierge, rose au jour, dans l'ombre est violette ;
Là, rampent dans l'horreur la maigreur du squelette,
La nudité du ver ;

Là frissonnent, plus bas que les égouts des rues,
Familles de la vie et du jour disparues,
Des groupes grelottants ;
Là, quand j'entrai, farouche, aux méduses pareille,
Une petite fille à figure vieille
Me dit : J'ai dix-huit ans !

Là, n'ayant pas de lit, la mère malheureuse
Met ses petits enfants dans un trou qu'elle creuse,
Tremblants comme l'oiseau ;
Hélas ! ces innocents aux regards de colombe
Trouvent en arrivant sur la terre une tombe
En place d'un berceau !

Caves de Lille ! on meurt sous vos plafonds de pierre !
J'ai vu, vu de ces yeux pleurant sous ma paupière,
Râler l'aïeul flétri,
La fille aux yeux hagards de ses cheveux vêtue,
Et l'enfant spectre au sein de la mère statue !
Ô Dante Alighieri !

C'est de ces douleurs-là que sortent vos richesses,
Princes ! ces dénûments nourrissent vos largesses,
Ô vainqueurs ! conquérants !
Votre budget ruisselle et suinte à larges gouttes
Des murs de ces caveaux, des pierres de ces voûtes,
Du cœur de ces mourants.

Sous ce rouage affreux qu'on nomme tyrannie,
Sous cette vis que meut le fisc, hideux génie,
De l'aube jusqu'au soir,
Sans trêve, nuit et jour, dans le siècle où nous sommes
Ainsi que des raisins on écrase des hommes,
Et l'or sort du pressoir.

C'est de cette détresse et de ces agonies,
De cette ombre, où jamais, dans les âmes ternies,
Espoir, tu ne vibras,
C'est de ces bouges noirs pleins d'angoisses amères,
C'est de ce sombre amas de pères et de mères
Qui se tordent les bras,

Oui, c'est de ce monceau d'indigences terribles
Que les lourds millions, étincelants, horribles,
Semant l'or en chemin,
Rampant vers les palais et les apothéoses,
Sortent, monstres joyeux et couronnés de roses,
Et teints de sang humain !

III.

Ô paradis ! splendeurs ! versez à boire aux maîtres !
L'orchestre rit, la fête empourpre les fenêtres,
La table éclate et luit ;
L'ombre est là sous leurs pieds ! les portes sont fermées
La prostitution des vierges affamées
Pleure dans cette nuit !

Vous tous qui partagez ces hideuses délices,
Soldats payés, tribuns vendus, juges complices,
Évêques effrontés,
La misère frémit sous ce Louvre où vous êtes !
C'est de fièvre et de faim et de mort que sont faites
Toutes vos voluptés !

À Saint-Cloud, effeuillant jasmins et marguerites,
Quand s'ébat sous les fleurs l'essaim des favorites,
Bras nus et gorge au vent,
Dans le festin qu'égaie un lustre à mille branches,
Chacune, en souriant, dans ses belles dents blanches
Mange un enfant vivant !

Mais qu'importe ! riez ! Se plaindra-t-on sans cesse ?
Serait-on empereur, prélat, prince et princesse,
Pour ne pas s'amuser ?
Ce peuple en larmes, triste, et que la faim déchire,
Doit être satisfait puisqu'il vous entend rire
Et qu'il vous voit danser !

Qu'importe ! Allons, emplis ton coffre, emplis ta poche.
Chantez, le verre en main, Troplong, Sibour, Baroche !
Ce tableau nous manquait.
Regorgez, quand la faim tient le peuple en sa serre,
Et faites, au -dessus de l'immense misère,
Un immense banquet !

IV.

Ils marchent sur toi, peuple ! Ô barricade sombre,
Si haute hier, dressant dans les assauts sans nombre
Ton front de sang lavé,
Sous la roue emportée, étincelante et folle,
De leur coupé joyeux qui rayonne et qui vole,
Tu redeviens pavé !

À César ton argent, peuple ; à toi la famine.
N'es-tu pas le chien vil qu'on bat et qui chemine
Derrière son seigneur ?
À lui la pourpre ; à toi la hotte et les guenilles.
Peuple, à lui la beauté de ces femmes, tes filles,
À toi leur déshonneur !

V.

Ah ! quelqu'un parlera. La muse, c'est l'histoire.
Quelqu'un élèvera la voix dans la nuit noire.
Riez, bourreaux bouffons !
Quelqu'un te vengera, pauvre France abattue,
Ma mère ! et l'on verra la parole qui tue
Sortir des cieux profonds !

Ces gueux, pires brigands que ceux des vieilles races,
Rongeant le pauvre peuple avec leurs dents voraces,
Sans pitié, sans merci,
Vils, n'ayant pas de cœur, mais ayant deux visages,
Disent : - Bah ! le poète ! il est dans les nuages ! -
Soit. Le tonnerre aussi.

Le 19 janvier 1853.

I didn’t want to fall apart mid-sentence,
So I said less and asked more questions.
Tuned out love songs, skipped our street —
I made avoiding you look complete.

I smile and nod when your name is mentioned,
As if it doesn't pull me out of the conversation
They throw it around casually, like it's not cutting right through —
I guess I never got to cry out about you.

© Copyright 2025 - Limes Carma

I now close this door,
like a chapter marked
by dead ends
and trial and error.

Now, stepping ahead,
I open a door unknown.

icarus 6.29.25 (4:00 pm / 16:00)
i, too
want to fly so close to the sun
that i become ashes
and when i am dead
then i will smile and laugh

and i will be happy

as i drift
as dust
into s p a c e

God bless the poets!
The pollinators they are!
The architects of the soul's garden,
The rain-bringer of sleeping seeds,
The ones who witness and testify
The pain of growth,
Applaud the blooming,
And invite the bees.

half way to paradise
half way to hell

a right turn here
a left turn there

love is radical
a choice made.

Used to play hide and seek
With emotions
That made me "weak"

They counted
Only to ten
Not much time to hide
So they always caught up
And found me
In the bathtub

Over time
They knew all spots
I used for hiding
They always find me

They make no noise
Walk on their tippy toes
Silent shadows
In endless rows

I don't want to play
But for them
Even when it's over
The game never ends

It came late in life. Poor no more and Peace on Earth forever. I spoke with everyone on Earth. They all became my friends. The poor, the crippled, the forgotten, all of them. We had a party, a worldwide party made beautiful by all the colors of skin. We danced different dances. We ate different foods. We shared different customs. We all prayed, each in his and her own religion. It was a festival of togetherness. All eschewed all weapons from guns to bombs. The air we all breathed was fresh and clean, as was the water we drank. It is possible to awaken truth, that all are sacred and divine. Live your life with love.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

How can I become bigger than my pain?

You found me washed up,
I’d fallen at sea,
Searching for an island,
I’d dreamed into being-
I was sure it was safe from all harm.

Half alive, you dragged me up and into the dunes,
Began to resuscitate me,
with nothing else,
but the sureness in your eyes.
My heart danced,
Yet my head stood still.

We tangled our threads,
I held your throat,
with electric hands,
Wrapped up in our own special place,
You were my fire in the rain.

And as the fires roared,
Sureness soared,
I jumped from my own skin,
With fear In my hands,
Strangled my self to death.
Put myself out,  
trampling upon the embers of us,

      With the same old boots i had worn before   you saved my life x x

Have you ever seen a person drown?



You fight, muscles straining as you reach--flailing helplessly toward what you need most. You can't stand it anymore as your body screams for oxygen. You gasp-- hoping, praying this is a dream, but a searing burn rushes down your throat and through your lungs as water floods in. It shouldn't be there, you know it-- every cell screams but it's too late, the water is inside and keeps flooding in. You reach for the light one last time, it filtering and bending into bright rays around your fingers. Your vision grows dull, your muscles no longer respond to what your brain is telling them to do. The light growing dimmer and dimmer as the last bubbles float to the surface. One last ray of gold slips through your fingers... Then nothing...



It's to be expected for any animal to struggle as much as possible while drowning in the water. Some will put others of their kind underneath them, just for precious moments of rest and survival.
So what do you do when you find a person overboard, drowning in the sea of black?
Naturally, I throw the life preserver in hopes that they will grab onto it and I can save them.

Remember what I said when some creatures will force their own kin under in order to live?
Well, what do you do with a creature like that?
Eventually, it's you or them. At this point, it's natural to choose you!

Te extraño,
y me da coraje admitirlo.
Porque sé que no lo mereces,
sé que no hiciste nada para quedarte.

Pero igual,
me haces falta a veces.
No por lo que fuiste,
sino por lo que yo imaginé contigo.

Me duelen tus silencios,
más que tus palabras.
Porque yo te hablé con el alma,
y tú solo mirabas la pantalla.

No debería pensarte,
pero lo hago.
No debería quererte,
pero hay días que todavía lo siento.

Y aquí estoy,
luchando conmigo misma
para no buscarte,
aunque el corazón me pida que sí.

If I could catch a rainbow,
I'd do so just for you
So you could share its beauty
On the days you're feeling blue.

If I could, I'd buy an island
You could call it your very own,
A place to find serenity,
Where you could be alone.

If I could take your troubles
I'd throw them in the sea,
But all these things I'm finding
Are impossible for me.

'Cause I can't buy an island
Nor catch a rainbow fair,
So I'll just do what I do best:
Be someone who's always there.

The problem is, nothing is inherently positive or negative. Without our perception neither would exist at all. Its our view of the world that makes it what it is. You have the power and you're giving it away by allowing your external reality to influence internal disorder. Take control of your thoughts and emotions, or fall ill just as the sickness intends. Hurt bleeds like the flames of a wildfire, spreading with the breath of the wind keeping them alive. Don't get caught in the embers of other peoples battles, or fall to ash just the same. You're feeding the blaze with energy, make the change and step away. Taking yourself out of the equation is the only way to starve the flame.

In You, I am alive —
In You, I can try; thrive —
In You, I can create,
In You, I know my fate —
In You, I can fail.
In You, I can see all,
Now, truly.

There once was a lass
who gazed upon the sky,
like a sailor’s widow
with eyes pining the sea.

A different ocean,
with clouds and birds—
not crests and reflections,
another kind of mirror.

A looking glass, yes:
one reveals past and present,
the other is a blank portal,
not yet formed; possibility.

Burdened by years of earth,
the girl reached up high.
To fly free in the skies,
a plan she did birth:

Simple avian appropriation—
"What could go wrong?"
Manufactured imitation—
"In the skies I belong!"

Remnants of spent candles,
some old pillow filling,
so easily on handle
to construct her wings.

And like that, she flew!
Never close to the sun,
no solar balance due—
destination once begun.

Wise to not create cracks,
a creature in the sky;
falsified wings on her back—
her presence flies on lies.

Nary a muster, ******, or flock
would take this creature in.
Unwelcome, artificial stock:
a lost and confused being.

"I have no nest, no call, no cry,
no wind-song born from feathered kin—
yet higher still I ride the lie,
if not a bird, then what has been?"

Her wings were stitched from want and thread,
a blueprint torn from childhood dreams.
She passed the clouds, yet still she bled—
unseen by all, or so it seems.

"You gave me wax, you gave me fire,
a name I wore, a borrowed skin.
I climbed the hush of false desire—
but never learned the wind within."

{fin}