Sweltering Thunderstorms of made up faces

Several speaking simultaneously

Babbling loud and

Click

Bang.

To forget ourselves

Take off

and float

downstream

Take the easy river

like a twig,

staring

at a stark sky muttering

my my.

Rapid heart beat,

Eyes blink, blink, then blink.

Downward soul,

Hurt sinking lower, lower.

Stomach taunt,

Bile rising slowly, slowly.

Despair entrenched,

Roots running deep, deeper still.

Tears fall like rain,

Waterfall cheeks rolling, rolling.

Coldness inside,

Emotions pushed down, down.

Thoughts overturned,

Feelings of dark, darkness.

Goodness strolls away,

Courage run, run, running.

It gets better,

That's what everyone says, said, saying.

Time goes by,

Things keep change, changed, changing.

Sadness closes in,

Moments of dread, dreading.

Keep a sound head,

Keep going, going, going.

I don't know why,

I wrote, am writing, have written.

Maybe it's to feel alive,

Feel something, anything, everything.

In life, no one really listens,

But you must try, try, try.

2/28/24 (a leapyear) 3:49am (EST)

Making bread is easy, some say.

Add water to flour and don't forget the yeast,

unless pita bread is what you eat,

stir, knead and let rise before you bake.

That's all it takes!

Some say the same about poetry.

Put a word here, a metaphor there,

add a rhyming couplet,

and you're home free!

Poets would certainly disagree.

Like poetry, making bread is artistry.

Make sour dough bread

and you will see

that it takes time like poetry,

to get there mouth-watery.

Preparing a starter with wild yeast

is definitely the way to go,

for aroma, texture and flavour,

I'm sure you know.

After a week of fermenting and refreshing,

the starter is ready to make dough.

Knead it gently and lovingly,

for good gluten elasticity.

Leavening, shaping and proofing

affect its structure and texture,

and every loaf's personality:

Round, oblong, puffy or bubbly.

When that golden-brown poem,

has become a crusty reality,

the result is sumptuous music,

a divine delicacy!

Smell its fresh-baked aroma,

feel its crustiness and suppleness,

taste its spirit and soul!

Like manna from heaven,

inspiring and sustaining

after a soulless day.

I feel as if our days of present are just flat out giving us the finger

they seem to be somewhere between the Twilight Zone

or perhaps an episode of Jerry Springer

Society's norms and its levels of unreal have reached a deeper realm of the unknown

We know wrong and bad have always been

but there is such a decline among us

good is still represented, but lately it has been taking it on the chin

the slightest glance or word can send someone into a violent fuss

I don't like to watch the news

people behaving badly

if one of us is a victim of evil we all lose

it truly takes a piece of our peace sadly

We are all connected and together we need to stand

as one we can shake our heads, but in numbers we can bring change

we need to sweep the hate, the violence, and the wrongs that rage across our land

coming together should be natural, not extraordinary or strange.

As Rod Serling would say in only the way he could

"Imagine if you will...."

A world where we chose love not hate and lived as we should

Where we could take a moment to breathe in peace and just be still.

you married for money

planned it from the start

set the bait, and the trap

stock in her name

disguised as just an engage-

ment gift, from you to her

you played the game, sure to

avoid doing insider trading.

sold them early because you knew

it wouldn't last

and she adapted too fast, learned

to avoid your ways of control.

women can plan ahead too, you see.

you underestimated my mother's

sixth sense; stole the 330k

a drop in the bucket for

a man worth millions.

could've been more

if not for her resilience,

and when she caught on to

your wicked intentions,

she'd served her purpose,

your children and prestige

advanced your career and

all things to show off

speaking to your greatness

possessions created from

not love, but hate.

she didn't know better,

at first, 'til she did.

you dragged her by the hair

tossed in the backseat

and 8 months of pregnancy

meant not one thing when

you drove through miles

of woods at night

pushed her into a ditch

and told her to sign,

'sign, or i will kill you.'

I wish she'd seen the signs.

at 8am the lawyer came round

and sign she did,

to protect the kids

how is it the law

and the courts

could believe the lies

that you spun,

the web you grew

to protect reputation?

money, of course.

a bribe will go far to hide the truth.

you destroyed my youth,

you stole my soul.

it was not yours to own.

i don't care if you made it,

don't care if you raised it.

you did a shit job anyway

'cause all that I learned

was from watching you, sure:

from seeing how not to behave

and planning my escape,

and deciding that

when I grew up

I would be everything that

you never were.

I'd hold tables and mountains to

protect the people around me

and my love would never depend

on success or attention

because that's not affection

and anyone who could threaten

to use violent methods

is someone who I will not speak with.

you will never meet my children.

you don't deserve to

and they won't deserve you,

to be used and abused

in all the worst ways.

you claim that your blessings have

always been earned and

the best comes to those

who do good on Earth

well then I sure hope

that you'll realize while burning

that you were the worst kind of person

and I hope you know

the only blessing you have earned

is a blessing for all those around

and really a curse, you'll have no reward.

i hope the universe knows

the only thing that you deserve

is living alone and dying alone.

The old oak tree stood sentinel at the edge of the meadow, its gnarled branches reaching for the sky. Beneath its sheltering canopy, Luke and Kara sat side by side, their fingers entwined. The sun dipped low, casting a warm golden hue on the grass, and the air smelled of earth and memories.

“Remember when we used to climb this tree?” Kara’s voice trembled, and Luke squeezed her hand. “We were invincible back then.”

Luke nodded, his eyes tracing the familiar contours of the landscape. “Life was simpler. But now… it’s time to say goodbye.”

They leaned against the tree, sharing stories of laughter and tears, of dreams woven together like the leaves above. The whispers of the wind carried their secrets—the promises made, the love shared. As twilight settled, they pressed their foreheads together, hearts heavy with the weight of parting.

“Promise me,” Kara whispered, her breath catching. “Promise that wherever life takes us, we’ll find our way back.”

Luke kissed her forehead, tasting the salt of his tears. “Always, my love. Even if it’s just in the echoes of this tree.”

And so, as the sun dipped below the horizon, they released each other’s hands, their souls forever entwined in the fading echoes of a love that transcended time.

In the quiet of that meadow, the old oak tree stood witness to countless goodbyes, its branches cradling the memories of those who had loved and lost. And as the stars blinked into existence, it whispered stories to the moon—of love, loss, and the bittersweet beauty of farewell.

There's something about change that makes me want to scream. Why can't things go back to the way they were before? I was happy, I was young, I had no worries. Life happened, change happened and now I'm like this. The world can be cold and dark and lonely and all it takes is one mistake for everything to crumble.

I'm trapped in the past.

Hoping each day won't be my last.

Who I was before,

I am not anymore.

The darkness creeps in,

I learned and sinned.

I thought I knew,

But now I don't know who.

Who am I?

Years ago I would cry,

If I just knew what life would be like now I would have chosen to die.

My mouth opens, yet no words come out. I search through my mind, trying to grab at any thoughts that I can, yet it seems there are none. My mind is empty and blank. And the page before me remains as blank as before, the text bar pulses steadily waiting for me to write something, anything. No thoughts and no feelings, how can I write when I cannot feel? How do I write when I have nothing to say? What do I say?

This dreaded writer's block, causing me to cast all of my feelings and thoughts, ideas and inspirations into a chest, not allowing me to reach them. It's like I can't think or speak or feel, like I am stuck behind a thick wall. Trapped in a dark room, preventing me from being able to do anything. That blank page, staring at me in the face, daring me to write something. Taunting me for having no thoughts.

That dreaded writer's block.

I long to be Crème brûlée,

Elegant, appetising, challenging.

With a hard shiny surface

That repels the unworthy

A puzzle to the stranger

Underneath - soft, silky

Rich and smooth and just a little bit French

I fear I am a muffin

High in fibre, plain, sensible

The boring choice, the predictable selection

Where random ingredients

Often on the verge of spoiling

Are thrown into the mix

Savoury or sweet but never the show-stopper

I used to be leftovers

Crammed into plastic Tupperware

Left to sweat in the back of the fridge

Slowly turning sour with neglect

Flecked with red and black mould

Eventually discarded with disgust

During a biannual fridge clean

But I'm probably a soup

A colourful medley of vegetables and legumes

Hot or cold, spicy or fragrant

Healthy and hearty

A guiltless pleasure on a cold day

Unremarkable, but familiar

Occasionally lacking seasoning

Always better with cheese

I hear footsteps in the hallway, but it could just be the wind. I see flashes; they’re blurry. (I’m not sure they’re real).

I can’t get into some of the rooms in my head, but I know shadows hide behind the doors. my body keeps score of a game I don’t recognize—some locks

aren’t meant to be picked. not knowing

is its own form of a haunting.