Scissor Gremlins I own ten thousand scissors,(Or nine—who keeps the score?)They vanish in the night-time mistAnd leave me wanting more! They giggle from the shadows’ edge,They snicker from the drawer—While I’m reduced to kitchen knives,Like some barbaric chore. I cut my yarn with butter blades,I poke my thumb in pain,And still those shiny silver fiends…

Scissor Gremlins I own ten thousand scissors,(Or nine—who keeps the score?)They vanish in the night-time mistAnd leave me wanting more! They giggle from the shadows’ edge,They snicker from the drawer—While I’m reduced to kitchen knives,Like some barbaric chore. I cut my yarn with butter blades,I poke my thumb in pain,And still those shiny silver fiends…

The Silent City Of all the marvels they had ever seen,None matched this splendor, risen from the green—A world once rich, of palace, gate, and street,Where nobles passed and armored guards would meet. A tide of luxury—its glory vast—Now hushed; its golden echoes from the past.Bright temples pointed upward to the sun,Their roofs aflame with gold when day begun.

The Silent City Of all the marvels they had ever seen,None matched this splendor, risen from the green—A world once rich, of palace, gate, and street,Where nobles passed and armored guards would meet. A tide of luxury—its glory vast—Now hushed; its golden echoes from the past.Bright temples pointed upward to the sun,Their roofs aflame with gold when day begun.

Meditation on the Mechanical Persistence of Life A lone heart beats slowly, without will,Its lifeblood withheld, its rhythm spare.The body moves, but all within is still—An echo trapped in unremembered air. It holds its tears as though they might restoreA world already vanished, pale, and cold.Each memory, a wound it can’t ignore,Each pulse, a tolling bell for what grows old.

Meditation on the Mechanical Persistence of Life A lone heart beats slowly, without will,Its lifeblood withheld, its rhythm spare.The body moves, but all within is still—An echo trapped in unremembered air. It holds its tears as though they might restoreA world already vanished, pale, and cold.Each memory, a wound it can’t ignore,Each pulse, a tolling bell for what grows old.

Love Lost and Yearning A lonesome heart beats softly in the chest,Its rhythm beating names the mind forgot.Each pulse recalls the warmth that once caressed,Each silence mourns the echo that is not. It holds its breath, afraid to break the dream,Afraid to weep, lest memory awake—For love once flowed like sunlight on a stream,And left behind the shimmer of its wake.

Love Lost and Yearning A lonesome heart beats softly in the chest,Its rhythm beating names the mind forgot.Each pulse recalls the warmth that once caressed,Each silence mourns the echo that is not. It holds its breath, afraid to break the dream,Afraid to weep, lest memory awake—For love once flowed like sunlight on a stream,And left behind the shimmer of its wake.

Late Autumnlast persimmon fallsfrom the twisted orchard limb—nobody to catch

Late Autumnlast persimmon fallsfrom the twisted orchard limb—nobody to catch

The Warrior, Poet, Sage The warrior, poet, sage—here all are shown,Their likeness carved, their legacy made known.When dawn first broke, the poet’s voice arose,The painter’s light in living color glows. The sculptor’s hand from marble shapes the soul,Each art a flame that makes the spirit whole.Born of the earth, yet tempered by the mind,They leave immortal beauty for mankind.

The Warrior, Poet, Sage The warrior, poet, sage—here all are shown,Their likeness carved, their legacy made known.When dawn first broke, the poet’s voice arose,The painter’s light in living color glows. The sculptor’s hand from marble shapes the soul,Each art a flame that makes the spirit whole.Born of the earth, yet tempered by the mind,They leave immortal beauty for mankind.

In the beginning, when the void was still,before the rivers had names, before dawn grew teeth,She walked alone through the unbraided dark.before the rains dreamed of falling,the Creator stood on the rim—a place where nothing yet knew her. From her cupped hands came breath—so deep it stirred the roots of time.Planets woke like sleeping stones;

In the beginning, when the void was still,before the rivers had names, before dawn grew teeth,She walked alone through the unbraided dark.before the rains dreamed of falling,the Creator stood on the rim—a place where nothing yet knew her. From her cupped hands came breath—so deep it stirred the roots of time.Planets woke like sleeping stones;

The Turning Heart I rise with hope, I rise with light,I rise from ashes into sight.Through storm, through flame, through bitter art—I rise to mend the broken heart. To love, to lose, to learn, to yearn,To wander paths that twist and turn,To dream without, to dwell within,To break, to heal, to end, begin. The more I give, the more I gain,

The Turning Heart I rise with hope, I rise with light,I rise from ashes into sight.Through storm, through flame, through bitter art—I rise to mend the broken heart. To love, to lose, to learn, to yearn,To wander paths that twist and turn,To dream without, to dwell within,To break, to heal, to end, begin. The more I give, the more I gain,

Eidolon at Dayligone When dayligone drapes dusk’s gray shroud,And whispers hush the meadow loud,A soughing wind begins to moan—Through hollow reeds its ghostly tone.It wails along the sepulchral plain,Through crypt and grove, through mist and rain;A tomblike chill, a breath half-known,That chills the marrow, stirs the stone.An eidolon, pale and drifting near,

Eidolon at Dayligone When dayligone drapes dusk’s gray shroud,And whispers hush the meadow loud,A soughing wind begins to moan—Through hollow reeds its ghostly tone.It wails along the sepulchral plain,Through crypt and grove, through mist and rain;A tomblike chill, a breath half-known,That chills the marrow, stirs the stone.An eidolon, pale and drifting near,

The Monuments of Pride When last you saw that figure stand,In robes of thought and scholar’s hand,Who, called to teach, spoke empty air—No truth to lift, no light to share. He vowed to guide through hidden ways,But wisdom turned from hollow praise.False friends, your journey finds its close,For knowledge fades where folly grows. Led on to gates where pride was crowned,

The Monuments of Pride When last you saw that figure stand,In robes of thought and scholar’s hand,Who, called to teach, spoke empty air—No truth to lift, no light to share. He vowed to guide through hidden ways,But wisdom turned from hollow praise.False friends, your journey finds its close,For knowledge fades where folly grows. Led on to gates where pride was crowned,

Spacas Blender in the year 2023 by Seraphia (age 16

Spacas Blender in the year 2023 by Seraphia (age 16

And Still, the River Moves And the moon, and the mist, and the murmuring trees,And the wind that remembers, whistles, and grieves,All gather at dusk (as if keeping watch),And whisper of time… of touch… of loss. The water runs—(or maybe it dreams)—and shivers, and shines, and scatters its gleams,and I run beside it and think and forget and remember again and—

And Still, the River Moves And the moon, and the mist, and the murmuring trees,And the wind that remembers, whistles, and grieves,All gather at dusk (as if keeping watch),And whisper of time… of touch… of loss. The water runs—(or maybe it dreams)—and shivers, and shines, and scatters its gleams,and I run beside it and think and forget and remember again and—

Beyond the Reach of Mortal Mind They lingered where the echoes sound,And beauty bloomed, and peace was found.Though called to leave, they sighed and turned,Their hearts with quiet longing burned. Their guide, with patience, sought to showThe works of God, the art below.But nature’s store, so vast, so deep,Outran the bounds that time could keep.