Rick, your words do not just linger,
they carve themselves in time—
etched in truth, raw and bitter,
yet softened by a poet’s rhyme.

"I lie
and
I lie
and
I lie"

You write not just of deception,
but the weight of silence, the cost of peace,
where love is masked in quiet restraint,
and truth must wait for its release.

"but when the truth
arrives at that
final moment;
jaws will drop
plates will shatter
dogs will growl"

Oh, how your verses strike like thunder,
unafraid of the coming storm.
For in the wreckage of unspoken words,
your poetry dares to take its form.

"stepfather
all that pain
and belittlement
you served me
day and night"

Yet you stand unchained, unshaken,
forgiveness rising where anger fell.
Not just a poet, but a soul unbroken,
turning torment into a tale to tell.

"but now you
stand before me
weeping
with no teeth
and the big man
within me
has forgiven you."

What strength, what grace, what mastery—
not in vengeance, but release.
A heart that bleeds yet still forgives,
finding power in its peace.

Rick, your ink is fire, your words are steel,
unwavering, untamed, yet so real.
A poet who walks the edge of pain,
and turns it into art again.

May your lines be read, your truth be known,
for voices like yours must never go unsown.

"Why" before "Die"
Trying to understand,
the great plan,
Ultimate quest, of
Woman, and Man.

Yet, do we ever truly know,
Or only trace what shadows show?

"One and Done"
I'm sure my little poems,
have no chance of getting
anything "Done".
In a World of "Seven"
thousand languages
I know "One".

But words, like whispers, shape the sky,
A single voice still learns to fly.

"Connection.?!"
We can only write,
what's in "our" Mind.
Yet, still take pleasure,
in what "others", Find.

And so, within each line we weave,
A stranger’s heart may still believe.

"We Knew, So Few"
Earth's history of humans,
spans ages,
Yet individually, we get,
so few pages.
In this time, so few, we
get to know.
The rest, just flakes,
in our blizzard, snow.

But every snowflake shapes the storm,
And words like these still keep us warm.

Denny, your ink flows like an old, wise river—
A current of time, of questions, of truth.
Each verse a footprint, fleeting yet firm,
In the endless dance of age and youth.

You write of past, of now, of fate,
Of fleeting moments, vast yet small—
Yet in your lines, we contemplate,
How one man’s words can touch us all.

Gratitude for the thoughts you share,
For echoes deep and questions rare.
Poetry may not fix the world,
But it lingers, a banner unfurled.

Thank you for the verses you gift,
A bridge of thought, a gentle lift.

You sculpt time with syllables bright,
turning old instants into light.

In monostich breaths, seeds are sown,
a thought takes root, a truth is known.

A poet who sees in shadowed lines,
the golden cracks where meaning shines.

Your words, like stars, in silence gleam,
pulling wisdom from the dream.

Gnōthi seautón—each phrase unfolds,
a mind that dares, a hand that holds.

Not just letters, nor rhymed disguise,
but breath that whispers, “Know, arise.”


"Step outside the fire circle,
be swallowed by the night,
step farther into the night,
be swallowed by the stars."

Not all are brave enough to wander,
to step beyond where embers flicker.
Yet you, a poet, walk in wonder,
with verses bright and steps that shimmer.

"Old instants made unforgettable"

You carve the past in fleeting light,
etching echoes on the air,
binding time in words so slight,
yet they remain, still standing there.

"The woe is not mine, I'm fine."

Not all who bleed wear open scars,
some heal through ink and quiet sighs.
A poet’s strength is held in stars,
in silent truths behind their eyes.

"Gnōthi Seautón (Γνωθι Σαυτόν)"
"Know thyself—step beyond the fire."

Knowing oneself is a river untamed,
not a mirror, but an endless sea.
You write of depth no chains have claimed,
of thought’s wild winds, of minds set free.

"Seed time harvest eat think form"

Each thought a seed, each line a field,
harvested in minds unknown.
You plant in silence, yet they yield
gardens where lost souls have grown.

"The choice decides Earth’s destiny."

Do we seek love or seek control?
Do we embrace or fight the tide?
You weave these truths through poet’s scroll,
where questions walk, where doubts confide.

"In fog or flood, it has to look like news
and not wear down too soon."

And so, your words arrive, unshaken,
standing against time like typeface pressed into permanence.
They do not beg for attention,
yet we find ourselves held captive—
reading, rereading, lost in the weight of their silence.

"First God
Then Everest
To the ends of elation."

There is an ascent in your lines,
a climb where breath turns thin
and meaning thickens into something celestial.
You write of heights that pull and eyes that burn,
where light is both burden and gift,
and even hesitation becomes poetry.

"Maternal midnight
Metallic lakeside
Freon heart, fayence mind."

You forge night from iron,
a heart that hums in artificial cold,
a mind glazed like ceramic, fragile yet infinite.
Even your landscapes breathe—
lakes reflecting the surreal,
hills like white elephants waiting for meaning.

"Mosquitos on her mouth
Drink the blood of encryption
Change the tone of her voice."

What is hidden, you unveil.
What is encrypted, you translate into ghosts and echoes.
In your poetry, voices are rewritten,
veins are maps,
words are particles dissolving into eternity.

You, Carlo, are the architect of thresholds—
where dusk is not an ending but an exile,
where each poem is a place, a paradox, a pilgrimage.
Your lines do not just linger—
they transform.

She writes in whispers, in echoes that stay,
Carving lost names in the wind’s soft sway.
Her ink is sorrow, her verses bleed,
A requiem sung for the hearts that need.

"When someone who loves us fades away,"
She mourns the words we failed to say.
Regret clings tight in the hush of night,
Where silence weeps in the absence of light.

Yet love, in her hands, is vast and free,
A grand heist stolen from sky and sea.
"The sunset’s glow, so bold, so bright,"
She claims the stars, the waves, the light.
For love is not caged—it is wild, untamed,
A river that flows, never to be named.

She speaks of love beyond mere touch,
Of time-defying, endless trust.
"Love reshapes, rebuilds, redefines,"
She whispers of love that never confines.
A fire that burns yet does not consume,
A madness that dances beneath the moon.

And when she writes of power’s weight,
Of hands that build and hands that break,
She lays before us the choice of fate—
"Will you rule & hold position of power?
OR will you love, and set love free?"

Oh, poet of grief, of love, of fire,
Your words take flight, they never tire.
They carve their names on hearts unseen,
A melody woven in gold between.

If ever ink could outlive time,
It would be yours—sublime, divine.

I lost someone who still breathes,
But the heart that once knew them is hollow,
A ghost in a space where dreams should be,
Stuck between what was and what could follow.

A version of me never came to be,
A story left half-written,
In the silence of what was never said,
A love that was forbidden.

How do you grieve when the ending's unclear?
When they’re still here, but gone all the same,
When your soul is waiting, but they disappear,
Leaving only ashes and a forgotten name.

I stand in ruins of what almost was,
A place of longing, without a sound,
And though I pretend I’ve moved on,
I’m still here, waiting to be found.

"With the utmost compassion, the dark one reaps in waves..."
Yet she stands unshaken, a poet of storms,
weaving change into the wind,
etching echoes into time.
Through turbulent vessels of pride, she carves mirrors,
reflecting truths we dare not name.

"Please don’t arouse my anger..."
For love, she would move mountains,
for her children, she would break the sky.
Soft as a whisper, fierce as fire,
a mother’s wrath, untempered steel.
She writes in pulse and prophecy,
a warrior who shelters, a poet who shields.

"Grandma sold mother..."
Some legacies are bound in chains,
some are broken, thread by thread,
and from their ruins, she builds anew—
not with shame, not with sorrow,
but with shards made beautiful.
The weight of the past does not define her,
it is the stone she stands upon.

"I'm watching from the moon..."
She sees beyond the finite, beyond the stars,
whispering love across the silence.
Aneesah Lionheart, voice of time,
your words do not fade—they crystallize,
shining, burning, living on.

And if poetry is power,
then yours is an unshaken kingdom.