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(Homilia eventually takes on the "usually short sermon" meaning in our modern homily, and then incorporated into the Latin used by writers of the early first millennium).
Cyber tributaries
For close upon my entrance
I am lost in this
can anyone dig out?
One men also cries
Because some of his friends
Had broken his heart again
And he is not feeling too happy
About that
And he is also crying because
He is feeling hurt
Also this men have the right
To
confront them
Also he has been
Crying all night
Also they don't treat him
With the respect he needs
Also he doesn't know
What to do about his friends
Eventually the best thing
He could do is end
The friendship with his friends
Right away
And tell them to go and
Live their own life
And he is also going to
As a young boy,
I remember,
walking through
fields of alfalfa!
The smell of the blossoms in the
valley calming and clear,
filling my young heart with joy.
My parents watched
as I ran jubilantly,
between furrowed
paths surreal!
There in the evenings and the
soft light of fireflies.
We sat and thought on
of their eloquent dance.
Fell asleep on the lawn as they,
silently faded into the sky!
Their memory
The water breathes a heavy, leaden sigh,
and takes the weight of weary limbs below.
No desperate breath, no startled sudden cry,
just quiet drifting in the undertow.
The sunlight fractures into dancing light,
like scattered gems upon a liquid ceiling,
As blue descends to deep and soothing night,
with gentle, cold, and slow-descending feeling.
The pressure is a soft and vast embrace,
a world of liquid glass and silence deep,
Where time forgets to mark its frantic pace,
and gives the restless, finally, their sleep.
"what actually is"
moving through a city route,
noting the way a bus door opens,
the way two strangers negotiate space
at a crossing,
the way afternoon light
angles across a shopfront,
all rendered in a single,
continuous line that feels improvised
but what actually is deliberate.
Neopoet Contest: ON HOLD
40 lines or less. Any Style.
Date: May 1st to May 31st 2026
I may be on hold but I am holding on
all through the hours keeping me strong.
A study in patience, a true work of art,
I follow direction as a rule from the start.
Holding tight to a lifetime of give and take,
I pledge from my heart to survive the quake...
of storms which shake us striking weary our souls
putting our lives on hold, we held to our goals.
It wraps around us
like an old friend,
three sides of shelter
and a soft spoken welcome.
Morning drifts first-
light pooling on the deck,
coffee warming our hands
as the world slowly awakens.
By noon, the breeze
threads along the rails,
carrying the scent of cut grass,
and the sounds of song birds,
just out of sight.
Evening settles deeper-
The creek playing its tunes,
the sky turning shades of amber,
Some prefer crash and bang,
As they live an edgy way.
But I prefer the calm,
Of a peaceful kind of day.
Detached from all the drama,
To hear the song birds sing.
A steady melodic rhythm,
Despite storms that life may bring.
Eyes open to variety's colours,
Joyous spring to winter bleak.
As I marvel at creation,
From the boldest to the meek.
On a landscape of great beauty,
Reeds and rushes, to brightest bloom.
May the calmness of the water,
Quell the storms that could consume.
Ode to Victoria. The Original Muse. Thays.
The original muse, a melody one never finishes discovering, destined to last a thousand years.
She is nothing but surprises, this unknown elegance of life. One sees only an infinity of nuances, losing words and thoughts in it; happy, all the same, to get to know her.