Human beings trust
The sum of prejudices,
Blunt as rusty blades of limitation
Repeating the same mistakes,
Longing for infallibility,
Losing the last crumbs of trust.

They fell before
Yet wanted the absolute
Of the right version of events.
Sliding under a pile of tangled,
Broken wires,
Which were supposed
To build their impeccability
In judging other beings.

Water changes its state,
How easy to trudge
Further into the blurring
Instead of understanding,
They hurl accusations.

Dust of doubt,
On the empty road,
A rocky path
Perforated by frustration,
And rigid filters.

Drinking the last sip
Of wild screams,
They say goodbye
To gentle humanity,
Selling the heart
to detectors, fallible tools
Of elusive dreams.
Quo vadis domine?
In exitium.

(with Candles, Trumpet, and the Sofa Duo)

Oil glows in the rotating light,  
casting brass halos on velvet gloom.  
Incense curls like whispered gears,  
clockwork dreams in a copper-scented tomb.

Candles line the mantle like sentries,  
wax pooling in slow surrender.  
Their flames flicker with knowing hush,  
soft tongues of fire that never remember.

Trumpets nest in the ceiling beams,  
mute horns of bygone fanfare.  
One has drifted — now hangs above  
the death mask, like a breathless prayer.

Tina and Rob on the leather sofa,  
a tableau of ease and quiet command.  
She with a slice of lemon cake,  
he with a dram, glass in hand.

Their laughter is low, like cello notes,  
a counterpoint to Mo’s bright spark.  
They anchor the room in lived-in grace,  
a hearth of warmth in the velvet dark.

The “Dark Side of the Moon” hums low,  
a vinyl echo through velvet air.  
Sisters lounge in mood-induced grace,  
steam rising from curls, from care.

A penguin pirouettes in the chandelier,  
not real, but real enough tonight.  
Its shadow dances on Mo’s soft laugh,  
a birthday flicker in candlelight.

This is no room.  
It’s a ritual.  
A place where time forgets to tick,  
and memory steams in fragrant loops.

We are the soot, the silk, the spark,
the breath between the brass and dark.

On the twenty-ninth of August, when twilight leans west,
At eight o’clock sharp, Pacific Time’s best,
The Hello Poetry circle shall gather once more,
On Zoom, behind our digital door.

No strangers allowed, just familiar names,
In the hush of our verses, in sorrow or flames.
This month we speak of tears, or tears, those shimmering threads,
Of grief, of joy, of words unsaid.

You need not read, just lend an ear,
To voices that tremble, to silence sincere.
And if you wish to share your own,
Carlo C Gomez awaits on the messaging tone.

From these nights of verse, a journal shall rise,
Quarterly born, for public eyes.
Free as the wind, with highlights to keep,
Of poets who gather while the world sleeps.

So reach out, inquire, don’t hesitate,
The door is ajar, and the hour grows late.
Let tears be the ink, and Zoom be the stage,
As we turn another heartfelt page.

There are many ways of looking
at a glass

but in this case
it comes down to two

a refusal to accept

or a deprivation of all that  you have
coming to you