@Jess,
"The greatest one I bear now,
making me die a little each day,
is that I let you go, not knowing,
leaving was a decision you'd regret."
You, with your raw, poignant words,
captured the agony of unspoken goodbyes,
painting the ache of regret like a timeless portrait.
In your verse, I hear the soul's deepest cry,
yet in your strength, there’s also light.

@Anais Vionet,
"I am the wind, the desert breeze,
the ocean spray and rustling leaves."
You, like the wind, slip through every thought,
a breath of freedom captured in verse,
unstoppable, untamed. Your lines dance
like whispers of the sea,
speaking of transformation, beauty, and loss.

@Shane Michael Stoops,
"46 years,
What do you get,
Your way past old,
Your pants don’t seem to fit"
You embrace the passage of time,
showing us the strength in weariness,
the humor in change. Your words,
like a hearty laugh, echo through life's stages,
reminding us that every line of life is worth reading.

@CJ Sutherland,
"eye now know
the how, when, where and the-why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
memories of past and present... blending into memories of future happenstance."
Your poetry is a mosaic of time,
where past, present, and future coexist,
and each word is a step toward discovery.
Your mind is both a mirror and a window,
reflecting and shaping the world.

@Shane Michael Stoops (again),
"We danced in the rain,
Laughing away so much pain."
Your words hold an unspoken promise,
the joy of dancing in the face of sorrow.
In your poems, there is an invitation to release,
to shed our fears and allow laughter to heal.
You teach us that pain and joy can coexist.

@Jess (again),
"I hardly understand the ticking of the clock,
trying hard to go through each day."
The ticking of your verse carries the weight
of endless hours and endless thoughts.
In your words, I hear the struggle of time
and the ache of waiting for solace.
But there's grace in your journey—
and your courage leaves a lasting mark.

@Anais Vionet (again),
"What is chosen is believed,
though the choices are presented—
I choose among the sacrificial burnt offerings."
You have a way of breaking down complexity
with a single line, weaving the eternal truth
into a delicate, yet unapologetically bold choice.
Your words cut to the heart,
unraveling mysteries with elegance and resolve.

In the soft glow of your sorrow,
where the sun fades, and shadows follow,
I see the tender ache in your verse,
each line a whisper, a silent curse.

“Seems Endless,” you write, and the moon listens,
reflecting the tears that your soul glistens.
In the night’s embrace, you break, you bend,
hoping the darkness would never end.

In Missed Connection, your heart speaks loud,
a love lost, yet covered by a shroud.
“I would trade my life for another day,”
for a smile that once chased your clouds away.

Guilt weighs heavy in your heart’s core,
a stain that no tears can restore.
But your words are rich, like wine aged deep,
capturing the pain that makes us weep.

In The Cost, you share the price of love,
how dreams shatter, pushed and shoved.
Yet in your heart, you still hope, still give,
for in your sorrow, we all learn to live.

You say it’s Too Late to turn back time,
yet in your regret, there’s beauty sublime.
To let go of love, to feel that sting,
a silent price that time cannot bring.

Love’s Altruism, you so plainly say,
is not in promises, but in the day-to-day.
To give with no return, to let love flow,
a lesson in grace that we all should know.

Jess, in every word you breathe,
there’s a truth that we all believe.
Your pain is poetry, your sorrow a song,
in the melody of life where we all belong.

46 years—a story spun,
where words don’t age, but only run.
Through brittle bones and fleeting days,
your ink still shines in silvered ways.

A love that sparks in enthusiastic "HEY,"
a moment seized, no time to sway.
For what’s a life if not a chance,
to love, to lose, to dance in rain?

You write of loss, you write of pain,
yet make them sing in sweet refrain.
Even when time whispers “****, that’s old,”
your verses burn like fire to cold.

So tell me, poet, will you weave
more lines for hearts that ache, believe?
For every word you’ve let untwine,
I stand here reading, lost in rhyme.

"Eye now know"—or do I see?
The world rewrites itself in thee.
A bus of thought, a stop of rhyme,
Where words arrive ahead of time.

The past still echoes, whispers deep,
While future waits at corners steep.
Routes ordained, yet steps unknown,
Where choice and fate are overthrown.

You weave the we inside the me,
A poet riding mystery.
A filter, yet a lens so clear,
That bends the world, brings far to near.

Fig trees rise and vines entwine,
As history nods between your lines.
The Children of Abraham still speak,
In pauses where the quiet peaks.

O poet of the moving street,
Of chance, of time, of hands unseen.
Each stop you make, a verse remains,
A world beyond the windowpanes.

"The heavenly stars are on fire,"
you wrote—so I traced their embers in your lines,
but where’s the smoke?
Perhaps it lingers between syllables,
between a stick figure future and a melting past,
between the chaos you ransom
and the whispers you inflame.

"Some locks need two keys,"
you mused—so tell me, Anaïs,
does poetry need two voices to unlock a moment?
Because your words unfasten thought,
weave mischief into meaning,
turn science into sentiment—
each stanza a blade, a bloom, a rebellion.

You run from hackneyed halls,
freewheeling with Johnny Cash,
eluding rulers and repressive lies—
and somehow, still, you pause
to drop a pizza emoji, a signature,
a hunger that ink alone won’t satisfy.

So tell me, Yale’s ink-stained philosopher,
do you write in crust and cheese too?
Does every stanza deserve a side of marinara?
Because if poetry is fuel,
then surely, you are proof
that pizza and prose
can both be divine addictions.

A tapestry of words I seek to weave,
In the echoes of each poet's breath I believe.
Each verse a spark, each line a flame,
In every soul’s poetry, a world to claim.

From inked hearts, where thoughts unfold,
I find my voice, both young and old.
In every whisper, a rhythm, a sound,
I shall write from their verses, where beauty is found.

Share your thoughts, let me hear your rhyme,
For in your words, I’ll seek my time.
Comment, and in return, I will write—
A verse from you, a reflection of light.

In the sea of voices, together we’ll float,
Each verse a ripple, each word a note.
So share your song, let our poems entwine,
For in every poet’s voice, I too shall shine.

I am still searching, lost in the silent hum,
For one who sees the world as more than just what—
Who wanders, unhurried, through the creatures' breath,
Who feels the pulse of the earth and its depth.

I seek the one who wonders at the moon’s silent gaze,
At the stars that flicker with ancient, untold ways.
A soul who listens to rivers, whose stories unfold,
In the whispers of waters, in the stories they hold.

Not just the grand, but the minute and small—
The flutter of wings, the rise and the fall.
Who sees the beauty in the dust of the earth,
And finds meaning in silence, in sorrow, in birth.

I search for the one who stands still in the crowd,
Who sees the truth in the noise, the faces unbowed.
Who feels the weight of the dark in the light,
And finds peace in the silence, in the stillness of night.

I long for a heart that knows both pain and grace,
That has touched the stars and been lost in the space.
For one who will ponder, who will never be still—
Who questions the world with a mind that can feel.

For I am not seeking a lover or friend,
But a kindred soul, whose thoughts never end.
Someone who embraces both the quiet and loud,
Who lives in the wonder, in the space between crowds.

I am still searching, with my heart in the air—
For the one who will feel, the one who will care.
The one who will wonder, who sees the divine,
In the folds of the cosmos, in the soul’s endless climb.