Our embraces linger,
each one carrying the urgency of being the last.
Time, surrendering, pauses to watch us,
and in that stillness
we become two frightened children—
fragile, yet endlessly brave.

To look into your eyes is a perfect moment,
a mirror of dormant memories,
of longing to fly,
and of the persistent hope
that we might find each other again.

Let me hold you once more,
let the caresses on your hands never cease,
nor the gentle warmth of your skin.

Let me feel how our heartbeats
merge into one,
and how the thunder of this union
shatters our senses.

For a moment—perhaps brief, perhaps eternal—
we are splendidly fleeting:
you and I,
completely in love.

Nothing is ideal in this world.
Be that mess and own it!

Find some peace within you that you can cling to.

Want nothing.
Wanting something only causes stress.

Nothing is ideal in this world.
Be that mess, nothing to lose.

But the distractions, discomfort and the trials are there to disrupt everything.
Everything is a lot.

You can’t expect anything.
Anything’s possible.

But nothing is ideal.
Be that mess, don’t find comfort.

Find patience.
Patience gives you time.

Sometimes it takes too long.
The winner takes everything and you can’t win.

But you also can’t lose.
Because you can’t lose everything.

Everything is too much.
You have to start all over again.

And you can do that sometimes but how many times?
At what cost?
Nothing costs nothing.

But nothing is ideal.
Be that mess and own it!

In A babbling Brook words, flow free
Too early to know
too early to see
what will be
Pen to paper a poem is born,  
Loose in content shape and form

TickTock the clock good and not.
Not the best concept I had
The spark, a word, a phrase, a line,
A moment in time,,
A Premise a plot

Quickly scribbling a rough draft down
Words, flow free quickness can be found
Then I find myself still looking around
Second-guessing the words flow meter sound
procrastination drives the poem
into draft mode until I see the light

Truth be told it’s procrastination
My infatuation it’s not complete
Elusive time passes
  revising in days weeks months
Sometimes it sits in exile
Out of the blue once in a while
The poem will come together
I smile

Revisions glow
It perplexes me to know
I struggle with this fight
at the end of the day,
when I read it
In my head, then out loud
I’m saying yes yes yes
it’s  done

Still I sit on it a day
just for fun
I Read it in the new day
of the dawning sun
Procrastination has gone?
Out of excitement or boredom,
I post the poem

It always surprises me when the poem
Is met with celebration
this painstaking collaboration
While other times, I’m sure
I’ve knocked it out of the park
Yet the poem remains in the dark,
not read
Silenced
a voice unsaid

There’s something to say for procrastination
It can be a healthy determination
Other times words, thoughts  
flows so freely
I don’t take the time to pre-read
as much as I should
.3:00am I post a poem.
Never advisable nor good

Honestly, the poem is
really still a draft
Celebrated, with errors
never mentioned
I have to laugh

I wonder do they not see them?
Or are they just being kind?
I would appreciate negativity
In a private message
Not on the World  stage of opinion
You get further with honey
Then with vinegar
I’m not interested in sinister


BlT Webster’s word of the day challenge
July 7, 2025 procrastination
To procrastinate is to be slow or late about doing something that should be done, or about doing or attending to things in general

I thought it would turn out.
I thought the time acted in tune with me.
I thought I was strong.
I thought it would be like a movie.

I know it was my mistake.
I thought it all seemed to me.
I can't believe still
That the fate can so bully me

I had a dream.
I don’t remember most dreams.

I was cleaning the floors of heaven.
It seemed a mixed blessing,
I was in heaven, after all
but I was cleaning the floors.

It was a part time job,
I knew that intuitively.
I don’t mind house cleaning, heaven cleaning.
It’s calm work, kind of Zen.
Are we supposed to think of religions in heaven?

At first I scrubbed on my hands and knees.
The floors are soft in heaven, like golden gym mats.
Then I thought of it, and suddenly I had a swiffer-wet mop,
just like that - and the pad never wore out.

After a while, I had an iPod, and AirPods too.
Then a daiquiri - a banana daiquiri with a pastel rainbow umbrella.
They make rapturous daiquiris in the hereafter - they never run out.
‘Heavenly,’ I thought, snorting out a dizzy laugh.
.
.
Songs for this:
The River of Dreams Billy Joel
If the Lord Wasn't Walking By My Side by Elvis Presley

Of all the literary
devices, my favorite
one is living.
There's no substitute.

As poets, we pull back the
curtain to our view of life.
You can shape your craft as
you go.
Metaphors will come all
over the page.
Your imagery will become
pencil-sharp and vivid.
Be patient.

If you don't have to
write, it will be easier if
you choose not to.
There are more enjoyable
activities:
***
Eating a lobster at dawn
Fishing
Swimming
Playing with your dog
or cat
*******
traveling.
Even getting your teeth
pulled can be less frustrating.

But if you must write,
you will.
Try not to ***** when
you are sick to your
stomach.

Paint a picture with
words.
Frame it with phrases.
Shine a light into the
vast darkness of mankind's
soul.
Be the light.