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 Feb 17 Jill
Anais Vionet
I watch the harbor through the falling snow
the sky and sea form one vast, gray tableau
the sun is nothing but a weak, background glow
the scene draws me, as if hypnotically.

Five mile’s lighthouse warnings go unvoiced
its strobes not lashing out, so what’s its point
it stands majestically but disappoints
replaced electronically

A tiny lobster boat makes its landward way
towards the inlet from the wider channel bay
a powdery blizzard is underway
which melts into the mirror sea.

Ospreys still hunt round the lobsterman's pride
snowflakes stain them as they soar and glide
other seabirds huddle side by side
shivering and crowing lividly.

Through the narrows the lonely boat steams
past icy Luddington Rock and East Breakwater's breech
its berths and moorings, within minutes reach
and sadly, it’s time for me to leave.
.
.
Songs for this:
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Nobody by Mitski
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 02/15/25:
Livid = angry, indignant, or enraged.
As I rotate without and within
When I’ve died I’ll be born yet again
I’ve come and I’ve gone
Like the dusk and the dawn
Can a cycle be said to begin?
In the beginning was the worm, and the worm was with a clod. And the worm was Claude. He was with a clod in the beginning, and through them all things were made. Without the worms and the germs and the clods of dirt, nothing was made that is now of this earth.

The dirt was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the heap. And Claude was hungering over the mud and the mire.

And Claude said, “Let there be bite”; and then he took a bite. And seeing that it was good, he took another bite. And from the soil he divided the clay. And from the clay, he divided the nitrogen. So that was the first clay.

Then Claude looked up at the clouds and down at the clods. And when Claude separated the clods from the clouds, he could see the heavens and the earth. And he saw that this was good.

Then with the next clay, Claude created the mounds and the knolls. Then he called on the dirt and the soil to bring forth the grass, the herbs, and every tree and fruit.

“Blessed are the seeds,” he said, “for the seeds shall inhabit the dirt.” And in due season, they would inhabit every heath and hillock.

Then Claude planted a garden. That garden would flourish with every tree that was good for food, and Claude saw that it was good. But not every tree was meant for eating.

Inside and outside of the garden, Claude crept. And in due season the garden was inhabited by humans, including but not necessarily limited to, both man and woman. And Claude wondered whether they were good.

Man and woman ate freely from the garden, but many plates were left unfinished. Many articles were cast out of the garden. There were leftovers and there were forbidden fruits. There were residues and there were residuals, and Claude saw that they were all good. And so the worm dwelt among the garbage of eaten.

It was a golden age for nematodes. All things were fruitful and all things multiplied. It was a time to be born and a time to plant. To everything there was a seasoning, and thyme for every purpose.

Whatever could be seasoned was rendered with seasoning. And what needed no seasoning was rendered unto Claude. And what Claude had joined together, no man or woman could tear asunder.

Then one day, Claude found himself in the valley of the shadow. Man and woman had stacked brick upon brick, building a tower whose top might reach the heavens. Until once again, darkness was on the face of the sheep.

Claude opposed their pride, but man and woman had sacrificed their only true sun and the light of the world. In the darkness, the flowers wilted, the vines withered, and the gourds worked in mysterious ways.

Forced to choose between the tree of life and the root of evil, every man woman and child decided for themselves. Even with twenty pieces of silverware, no man could serve two platters.

The sun came up and the sun went down. The cycle repeated but the lightbulbs would not be diminished and the darkness would not be mollified. Some travelled west and some travelled east. Some put down roots and others were uprooted. Some encountered generosity while others met with animosity. Some saved their clods and others paved over them. And for many generations, Claude was nowhere to be seen.

Then from the mist, a soft voice echoed. Those with the ears of corn could hear it, and those with the eyes of potatoes could see it. Until the cornucopia runneth over, with thanks and praises to the water and the sun and the whole compost.

Lettuce pray.
 Feb 17 Jill
Nick Moore
Mamma's got a song,
She sings late at night,
It makes her so happy,
It's just outta sight,
Yeah,
Just outta sight,
She sings it
High,
She sings it
Low,
I
Can't make out the words
But
Dad
Seems to know.

And their singing all night,  
Yeah,
It's just outta sight,
Momma got a song,
She sings late at night.

Mamma's singing high
And Dad's
Singing low,
I wish I
Knew the words
But I just don't know,
Oh yeah
I just don't know
Mamma's got a song,
She sings late at night.
Not a poem, so technically not for here.
Wanted to capture the feel of 70s rock songs, that hint at something else.
 Feb 17 Jill
Nick Moore
I want to be
Like
Entangled particles,
You and me,
Wherever we are
I'll know how you feel.
Subatomic 'twins' photons created by splitting a single photon in half.
Sunshine and
jelly beans
. . . some of the most
common of the ordinary things

Playing cards in bicycle
spokes . . . they could hear us coming , no joke !

No one could outrun me in my red Keds hightop tennis shoes

Staying after school for misbehaving in class
wasn't cool

Playing square ball as the autumn leaves fell . . .

Golden sunshine , Queen of the woods , a magical spell

I was living in my best imagination

I was nowhere . . .

then everywhere , giving it my all to tell
 Feb 17 Jill
Vianne Lior
A grind—bones against gravel,
Flesh pulled thin by rusted teeth.
A wail, swallowed by the wind,
Spat back hollow, broken.

The carousel, once a carnival of hope,
Rots in a barren field.
Its beasts—hulking shadows,
Eyes wide, frozen in fear
Of what never came.

Time loops—endless, merciless—
A cruel ring of blood and ash,
Twisting upon itself,
Never ending, never beginning,
Only echoing empty promises.

The wind howls with ghosts of lost ambition,
Claws dragging across splintered wood,
Brushing rusted metal—
Each touch a whisper
Of what could have been, but never was.

Dreams died here.
No one mourned.
They only rotted,
Sinking into the earth,
Leaving behind echoes
No one dares to hear.

And still, the carousel spins—
Not because it wants to,
But because it's too broken to stop.
The carousel spins on, not out of will, but from the weight of its own decay. A reminder that sometimes, we’re trapped in cycles we never chose, haunted by — a carnival of what never was.
 Feb 17 Jill
Vianne Lior
Stone lion mourns deep,
etched in grief, yet standing proud,
bravery carved wide.
A lion falls, yet duty stays,
Carved in stone, his honor sways.
For king and cause, they stood, they died,
Their silent valor, petrified.
The Lion of Lucerne stands as a testament to the bravery of the Swiss Guards who gave their lives in 1792, embodying the timeless bond between duty and sacrifice. Its mournful yet proud figure immortalizes their heroism, carved in stone for generations to remember.
 Feb 17 Jill
Vianne Lior
Act I: The Universe Breathes, and I Am an Afterthought

I arrived late to existence,
billions of years after the stars had their golden age.
Missed the Big Bang,
missed the Renaissance,
missed the time when love letters were written on paper,
instead of reducing feelings to keystrokes.

They handed me a body,
a mind that questions too much,
and a world obsessed with carving meaning out of chaos—
as if Sisyphus hadn’t already proven
we’re all just rolling boulders uphill,
pretending not to notice the futility.

Act II: The Weight of Knowing, the Lightness of Forgetting

Socrates said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”
I read that at 3 a.m. and felt personally attacked.
Descartes told me, “I think, therefore I am,”
but some days, I think too much and forget how to be.

History is a carousel of déjà vu,
spinning the same tragedies on repeat.
Empires fall, currencies crash,
trends resurrect themselves like poorly buried ghosts.
The Greeks feared hubris,
the Romans feared the barbarians,
I fear how meaning crumbles when no one is left to remember.

Act III: Beyond Meaning, Beyond Regret

Maybe Dante was right—
hell isn’t fire, it’s bureaucracy.
Maybe we’re just modern Stoics in overpriced hoodies,
romanticizing the art of being okay with things we can’t change.

Maybe meaning isn’t found in grand gestures,
but in the quiet absurdity of it all—
in watching the sun rise like it’s not exhausted,
in laughing at a joke older than Shakespeare,
in knowing that despite wars, collapses, heartbreaks, and lost civilizations—
someone, somewhere, still bakes bread from scratch,
still hums a song they don’t remember the name of,
still chooses to keep going.

Final Scene: To Exist Is to Hesitate, and Yet—

Nietzsche said, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”
I’m still figuring out my why.
But in the meantime,
I’ll sip my coffee, watch the world spin,
and pretend I was always meant to be here.
Some nights, the universe feels indifferent. I wrote this to remind myself that I am here—that I matter, even if only to myself. I exist, I question, I feel—what more proof do I need? I thought this wasn’t ready. Turns out, neither am I—but here we are. And if the universe remains indifferent, I’ll take that as permission to laugh :)
 Feb 17 Jill
Vianne Lior
I make them smile,
not for ease,
nor for the brief bloom of laughter—
but because the world is a weight,
and lightness must be carved
by hands willing to bear the chisel.

I have seen sorrow move like a tide,
dragging its wreckage ashore,
leaving eyes hollow, shoulders bent,
hearts shaped like doors
that open to emptiness.

I have watched the weary—
not dying, but unlit,
not grieving, but undone—
souls curled inward like autumn leaves
that never learned the grace of falling.

So I place joy like a candle
in the cavern of the ribcage,
let it flicker against damp walls of doubt,
let it whisper—however briefly—
that there is still warmth, still wonder,
still a reason to lift the chin
toward the sky and call it home.

A smile is not salvation,
but it is rebellion—
against the hush of despair,
against time’s indifference,
against the notion
that we are meant to suffer in silence.

Let them call me foolish—
say laughter is fleeting,
that joy is a trick of the light.
I will still shape it, scatter it,
send it forth like a dandelion seed
that does not care
where the wind takes it—
only that it was given,
only that it was free.
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