...just not AT me.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMDCCLIV)


Dad never owned a Starbucks cup, and thence
We'd only visit on occasion, frail
As my outrageous cup collection's trail
To more absurd things, other cust'mers hence
Half like him sans collections, like's good sense?
What were the point of stars? free food t'avail
And drink? I never thought that wise as bail,
Since cups shall last where food does not. Yet whence?
I can't resell last year's cups, nor in tour
Aught older ones. Or can I? Fun to do
Sans plans for mair than now, collecting's poor
If you've no end in sight. If I half rue
The game, what's left? Back then twas fun. Bestir
Sense now, and whither? LORD I wait for You.

21Sep25b

Like, huh?!


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMDCCLVII)


So I'm, oh nevermind, just what sans bail
I ever was, the ep'thet of good sense:
"Not good enough," regardless all pretense,
Still mine to own despite my efforts. They'll
Laugh in my face and pat my head to scale,
So full of it they never think but thence
I must be likewise, when I'm not. Come hence.
Let me go lose myself in woods t'avail.
I'll listen to the crew of fallen stir
Beneath my footsteps, looking up unto
Deep blue skies twixt the naked branches, fer
A vision of beyond. The turmoil through
Their madness let me now forget as twere.
Oh LORD, restore my soul. I wait for You.

23Sep25a

...in my twenties and thirties


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMDCCLVIII)


Oh sweet, drear Autumn hours! Mine cherished, dense
And moody blue racks yielding dim light's trail
To sheer foreboding, how I wish t'avail
Me of my youth! My father's house fr'intents
So free, I pranced through Fall with aught defense
In tow, likeas a princess, that detail
Of long plaid skirts wherein to traipse my bail;
How I do miss those years and sweet pretense!
What have I now? Like some cadaver, poor
As smiles and compliments, I wander through
These wastes of time a pris'ner waiting fer
My ticket to beyond. I've naught left to
Retain me here, and envy whom as twere
Leave ere I kin. Oh LORD, when? I wait You.

23Sep25

a woman's passion is a fiction of the sun
a radiance that forms and lingers
it's time burning like a rag in a guttering flame
it flickers, it spits a storm, a moment's certainty
a lifetime's doubt
it is the whisper of the wind in barren trees
a crucible for gravity's fervor
a silence dreaming its imploded sounds

The best way to lose an argument
Is to belittle whom you’re speaking with
Instead of hearing what they have to say
Doing all you can to put them in their place
Battling for your right to be wrong
Hoping to score some extra points

The best way to lose an argument
Is to try and take more than you give
Not seeing things through your opponent's eyes
Or realize there are two sides
If all you want to do is etch a notch or two
You'll never get round to, the real truth

The best way to lose an argument
Is to dive right in before you learn to swim
Placing all your focus on the prize
Though you could be wrong and they might be right
Does any of this make any sense
Being the best way to lose an argument

Sometimes a season comes
in a different way.
Sometimes there is a scent of flowers
you don’t see,
still making your day.
In life things can change in a second.
Live and feel intensely.

What a waste to hate,
to fight,
to lose faith and
to have all this wars.
Doesn’t everyone longs
for love, for peace?
This isn’t how it was supposed to be.




Shell ✨🐚

kids march to school
merry, hands linked,
socks strangling calves,
backpacks swelling with milk teeth,
dangerous smiles.
in the centre they stand
frondesce shivering overhead,
buttress roots clutching earth
like they know what’s coming.
bags dropped in a ring,
offerings to something older
than the walls they study in.
light fractures komorebi
and in its faded gold
i see pareidolia grinning
from the leaves.
i keep the temple.
the trunks sway in a rhythm
older than speech.
a faraway tree warns
don’t take pride in the faces
power is the thing they can’t hold.
if, my friend, you see the tree throw
know they are across the ocean.
owls, fat with promises,
every five years
stuff a new child’s face
into the stump’s rot
and call it a future.
the old tree votes unanimously
to shed its skin once more
they call it progress,
call the rot reform.
loosen your roots
the wind doesn’t care
which children
it strips for kindling.

starting in order to come to a stop
somewhere further down the line
a place where Butterflies dance
and Bees go about humming.