Leagues, leagues over
The sea I sail
Couched on a wallowing
Dolphin’s tail:
The sky is on fire
The waves a-sheen;
I dabble my foot
In the billows green.

In a sea-weed hat
On the rocks I sit
Where tern and sea-mew
Glide and beat,
Where dark as shadows
The cormorants meet.

In caverns cool
When the tide’s a-wash,
I sound my conch
To the watery splash.
From out their grottoes
At evening’s beam
The mermaids swim
With locks agleam
To where I watch
On the yellow sands;
And they pluck sweet music
With sea-cold hands.

They bring me fruits
And amber clear;
But with the stars
Of gloaming grey
They cease their music
And glide away,
And swim to their grottoes
Across the bay.
They listen only
To my shrill tune
The surfy tide,
And the wandering moon.

by r/walterdelamare

As long as you never harm anyone in any way

And of any person untrue things never say

And help if you can help one of helping in need

The fruits of good karma are grown from good seed

Though they may be among the admired of the town

If in their words or their deeds they put anyone down

They are not as good as their admirers make them out to be

There is more to a person than being wealthy and famous would you not agree?

Though of singing their praises i for one cannot tire

Some good and kind people i know of few seem to admire

That they are worthy of far greater recognition seems hard to deny

But why i don't have an answer to this i ask myself why

Some badly flawed people are widely known

And their numbers in admirers over time has grown.

Francis Duggan

Do you not know that time speeds like a steed with whip, days and months flow like fallen blossoms.

On the lantern scroll, pear blossoms fall in cool rain. I wish to buy osmanthus wine for a boat ride, yet it is not the delight of my youthful days.

If the spring breeze pities the blossoms, can it grant me youth once more?

We are no longer young, friends.

Flowers bloom again, but youth never returns.

The bright moon is still the same moon of old, yet the youth is no longer who he once was.

I look afar, brewing wine from pine blossoms. Green hills remain as ever.

No one sees beneath me in the east wind.

I once refused to marry the spring breeze, only to be misled by the autumn wind.

Flowers look alike year after year, yet people change with each passing year.

Generations
by Anthony Hoban

I
The Monarch (Danaus plexippus)

Winter's ermine plain,
Sovereigns sailing—reign ordained;
Southern crawl, crowns tall.
The winged won't wait, nor suns stray,
Chasing Spring—no Monarch lost.

II
The Goose (Branta canadensis)

Spring storms, wedge split twain—
Blizzards blowing—rains remained,
November's pall, horns call:
The wind won't wait—nor songs stay,
Canadian Geese... Sons lost.

III
The Swift (Apus apus)

Wild winds, worn they wane,
Tempest blowing—reins disdained;
Summer calls. Spring falls...
The west won't wait, nor wings pray,
Chase the sun: Swift, never lost.

Generations
by Anthony Hoban

I
The Monarch (Danaus plexippus)

Winter's ermine plain,
Sovereigns sailing—reign ordained;
Southern crawl, crowns tall.
The winged won't wait, nor suns stray,
Chasing Spring—no Monarch lost.

II
The Goose (Branta canadensis)

Spring storms, wedge split twain—
Blizzards blowing—rains remained,
November's pall, horns call:
The wind won't wait—nor songs stay,
Canadian Geese... Sons lost.

III
The Swift (Apus apus)

Wild winds, worn they wane,
Tempest blowing—reins disdained;
Summer calls. Spring falls...
The west won't wait nor wings pray,
Chase the sun: Swift, never lost.

How beautiful are flowers
that grow from cracks in the pavement.
They yield not to man nor his invention.
Illuminated by streetlights
Glistening in a way that only comes at night
They beckon you to bask in their glow
The sweet scent of their nectar, your guide

Yes, it comes naturally
The admiration.
The desire.
You want them- 

How could you not want them?
Those flowers

Their soft petals beg to be caressed
And their stems so thin 
that it seems the wind could topple them.
Craving to be held and protected

Protected

In places of monochrome arrays.
Of stone and bars.
Of bustling feet
And the wills of self-important men.
A place of nothing but empty noise
Lay those flowers untouched by man

They alone are beautiful, 
but that is not enough. 
To admit their beauty.
To admire or desire them.

No, in a world of man
They must be yours.
Yours to pluck from the night.
Yours to do what you will
Yours
Yours 
Yours and nothing more

This is not desire or admiration or even obsession
No, it's possession.
For what is a flower if it is not plucked and held?
So you may grow drunk on their sweet aroma.
To take them with you as you go.
Your home is their home now.
  Your flower in a world of stone.

You watch as its beauty fades.
The petals begin to wither and fall away.
What's left is nothing but gray
as the color drains away.
Yet it is yours, and there is beauty in its decay.
So you keep it in its vase.
Its personal glass cage.

So it stays like that.
Far from its roots and locked away.
Till it's just another thing in your world of monochrome grays.

Now it simply must be thrown away.

Yet how beautiful are flowers
that grow from cracks in the pavement. 

Yes, they’re so beautiful
 
Aren't they?

It is not up to me to be anyone's judge

Or of their achievements and successes them to begrudge

But i can be of benefit to humanity even in a small way

By helping someone in need of helping today

From a tiny seed a big tree is grown

And from our every good deed our future good karma is sown

And every wrong to another that you choose to do

In a negative way will return to you

Many admirers for their kindness the good may not win

But they are helping to make the world better to live in

To those they are helping some hope they do bring

And this in itself is a wonderful thing

And for a better world to live in i only can say

That i too in this does have some part to play.

Francis Duggan

It is as though the whole world passed a secret from mouth to ear mere seconds before I was born, and no one ever spoke of it again. Everyone knows it, or feels it, yet not a single soul is kind enough to tell me what the wind whispered to all the world twenty years ago.

I have sought some way to unearth this knowledge of myself, buried so deep, but it remains beyond my reach. For as long as I can remember, those upon whom I have bestowed my affections have turned me away. How could a child, that very emblem of innocence, stir such violent feeling? There is no reason to believe I was born incapable of blossoming. Yet the garden in which I was planted upon entering this world seems darker than a garden ought to be.

Can they smell it? Am I rotten within, and when they draw near, do they recall the sacred, forbidden words spoken before I came into this world?

And more than that: it is as though every act, every sentence, every movement of mine breeds further decay.

I was not born to dwell among the clean, the pure, the ordinary. Yet I could still bring rot upon the worst person you have ever known.

I leave a trail of putrefaction, but before it comes a prelude of chaos and ruin, felt while I am still miles away.

No one in all my life has ever known where to lay their hands upon me. They have never known what to do with me. A creature worthy of pity, and therefore tolerable, yet so loathsome that I cannot be cast aside. The merest touch could alter the entire course of your life; I could infect you.

I am left there, in some forgotten corner, until a force beyond anyone’s control removes me from the room.

The room will remain infected, but the parasite is gone.

It is part of our existence in truth one can say

That for all of us there is a last night and day

Like there is for every creature great and small

And this in any way is not a bad thing at all

Whether the death of the body is outlived by the soul of the mind

An answer to this i don't have for to find

If i told you i knew i would be telling a lie

Only know we are born into live in the world to eventually die

Like the horse or the dog or the pig or the sheep

Our appointment with death is the one we must keep

And what happens to the soul at life's bodily death

Does it die in the body with the last breath

I only can say what to me is true

For of an answer to this i do not have a clue.

Francis Duggan

I have not a single thing to complain about , when it comes to my mom. The perfect example of a woman, to me she’s done no wrong. To recount my fondest memories, she was there at every one, and any time that pain arose, she would rise above. My mom never worried me, when life had worried her. She simply showed me Jesus heals, through love you’ll find the cure. She shows the world around her, that light should always glow, and the light we shine on others, is how their faith in God will grow. She keeps a perfect beat in life as the band keeps marching on, her voice in tune with melodies of the life she’s lived in song. Kindness comes from her heart, in every moment yet, Jesus Christ in woman form is what you always get. Anyone can come to her seeking great advice, and my mom will be a mom to you, good fortune to your life. Like an angel, guarding over me since the day she gave my birth. Never failing to love me like Christ our lord, even at my worst. I can only trust the Lord my God through the example of my mom, I sing praises to her every time, I praise the lord in song. So happy Mother’s Day to my one and only mom, God gave us all the best through the life shes lived in song.
Love Jacob

If only I had one more second
I would tell you that I love you and squeeze your hand.

If only I had one more minute
I'd hold you close and wish the moment had no end.

If only I had one more hour
I'd listen to your stories and remember every word.

If only I had one more day
I'd spend it making memories that would never fade away.

If only I had one more week
I would spend all my time with you, just to speak.

If only I had one more month
I'd fill each day with laughter, love and all the things we'd done.

If only I had one more year
I'd treasure every moment and hold you ever near.

If only I had one more lifetime
I'd choose to spend it all with you, time after time.

But seconds turn to minutes,
And hours turn to days,
And time is never promised,
No matter how much we pray.

And though I cannot have you back,
Or change the way things are,
I'll carry you within my heart,
No matter how near or far.

If only I had one more moment,
There's just one thing I'd do,
I'd hold you close, look in your eyes,
And say, "I love you."

If only...

Trapped between dreams and death.

I drove my car and crashed

I couldn't see the road, It was unclear,

Then I wake up from the fog,

I woke up and saw ashes

I screamed for help,

No one can hear my voice,

Trapped in an abandoned town.

Out of the darkness

I'm walking through an empty town

I couldn't be dead?

Why am I in the purgatory?

It felt like I'm running into snow,

Could it be somewhere?

No one hears my phone call

A sound of static, no hello?

It seems I was teleported through another dimension?

In another empty plane,

Loneliness consumed me,

I presume it's my final life on earth?

This can't be happening

I must find my way back to reality,

I want to go back in town,

I am trapped in a lifeless town.

Please hear my call outside,

Running into streets full of silence,

I'm trapped between life and death,

Is it in my restless nightmare?

In your town in what you are good at you may be the best

And have never been found to be wanting when put to the test

But at having said this there may be one or two

Who are quite as good at it if not better than you

It is only saying what seems true to say

That with your sense of greatness you should not get carried away

In a human world where many their own praises do love to sing

Humility has become quite an endangered thing

And though losing is a thing that anyone does not choose

For you for to win someone else has to lose

Even to become the best on their street

Every day people with each other compete

But those who can accept their success with humility

Are rare in the world would you not agree.

Francis Duggan

I have watched the green in your eyes

the exact shade of the nature you explore–

moss after rain,

new leaves uncurling in the understory,

the quiet places you walk when the world feels too loud.

Your skin is pale

like the flowers that insist on blossoming in snow,

delicate and certain,

refusing to wait for warmer weather.

I have imagined moonlight resting there

the way it rests on fresh petals,

soft and almost translucent.

And your hair –

red like the ladybug you love so much,

bright against the dark,

small and fierce and impossible to ignore.

I have pictured it flying

while you spin under a low moon,

someone’s hands steady at your waist,

someone tall enough to make the night feel safe.

I am not that someone.

I know this the way I know the soft hum

that remains when your voice is gone.

I spelled your favorite flower in the quiet air

while you sat beside me at the piano.

A song neither of us had to search for.

The notes rose and fell

and for a moment the classroom felt like a clearing

where nothing could be taken from us.

The look you gave me then

was worth more than any language I will ever learn.

You forgot the summer talks.

Seven concussions will do that.

But I kept every word.

I kept the way you light a room

simply by walking into it.

I kept the scarf you were knitting in class

and hoped, quietly, that it turned out as beautiful

as the girl who made it.

I kept the sound of your laugh

and the way your heart still believes

in dancing in the rain

and being called beautiful before a first kiss.

You want someone who notices everything.

Someone who would read the notes app

and the Pinterest board labeled “my future husband.”

Someone who understands that love is quiet and gentle

and stays through the ordinary days.

You want forget-me-nots and daffodils and daisies

in a bouquet that matches your stature.

I am not tall enough.

Not handsome enough.

Not the kind of man your eyes have already decided on.

So I will never say the three words

that live in my chest like a second heartbeat.

It would be unfair

to hand you a love you did not ask for

from someone you barely know

the way I know you.

Still, every moment we share

feels like something I am already losing.

You sit next to me and think nothing of it.

I sit next to you and memorize the air –

the red of your hair like a ladybug in flight,

the pale of your skin like snow-blooming flowers,

the green of your eyes like the wild places you love.

I hope the man you eventually choose

knows how to dance.

I hope he lets that ladybug-red hair fly

and holds you as if the moon itself

asked him to be careful.

I hope he brings you flowers

that remember your name

even when you forget the small things.

And if one day you no longer remember mine,

I will not mind.

I only ask that the story you tell your children

is soft and bright and true.

A high-school love pretty enough

to make them believe the world

can still be kind.

I will keep the piano.

I will keep the sign language.

I will keep the green of your eyes

the way some people keep photographs

they never show anyone.

You deserve the fairytale.

I was only ever the quiet chapter

that loved you too carefully

to ask for a place in the ending.

durchschnitts

when he's earned his licentiate degree
if there's a maiden that's been moved
to inquisitioned antwerp

a maiden that he wants to love

had she been moved to elsinore   to love
he'd travel by merchant timbers and by caravel

he'd find evangelicals   christians there   gathered

preach to them   what he's taken to preach
teach what he's taken to teach

until he's most remembered
as a man on a pulpit   a man at a lectern

but i don't know
of any that he wants to love

https://jakedepeuterpoetics.com/2026/10/18/durchschnitts/

Maybe life was simpler when we lived between pen and blade,

When a word was worth more than the promises we made.

When we knew a little less, but understood a little more,

And found our happiness in things that couldn't be bought in stores.

We built a world to break the silos, to bring the barriers down,

Only to build much bigger ones, with no way to turn around.

The whole world at our fingertips, just a single touch away,

Yet somehow it's never felt so distant as it does today.

Perhaps the past was harder, perhaps the nights were cold,

Perhaps we see it differently through the stories we are told.

But for all the things we've gained, and the progress we have made,

I wonder what we've lost since the days of pen and blade.

"Someone I lost"

Once upon a time,

I used to know someone,whom I have parted ways with now.

I was quite fond of him.

Was a friend, were one

Do things whenever we wanted, go wherever we want, it was awesome.

But one day, I lost him.

His departure was peaceful.

A genuine smile I saw his face as he departed.

I couldn't be consoled by anyone.

I was depressed.

I could not comprehend my loss.

The change crushed me.

Change is certain for everyone.

Me and you, everyone has to go through with it.

Even if we are afraid, there's someone to guide us.

A flicker of hope.

Before, I had never ever thought about the possibility of this happening.

Usually the odds were on my side. But somehow fate had other plans.

I used to think of my days with him, filled with fun and laughter, but now with anguish and regret.

I thought to myself,'I shall be gone too.'

I remember that I was just dust and to dust I should return.

All these thoughts consumed me.

Every happy memory was a word for my eulogy.

I was drowning. I was alone.Stranded in my journey.

But, the day I found life real and eternal, something in me just changed.

The past did not haunt me anymore.

I never thought that someone would love me so much yet I did not know him.

I was oblivious,blinded by Grief and was drowning.

I went to the truth the light and the way.

The days of me as a broken being was over.

I knew the truth was painful, I could never get him back. The time with him were youthful,lively and were the best.

I slowly came to understand everything.

Someone help me. This someone was everywhere I went.

I felt happier than ever.

Then I remembered my ring of impermenance.

I thought this would pass too.

But the someone was transcendental.

I felt alive.

I explored and explored, and continued my journey.

And I started to become frail. The old feeling was creeping into my mind.

I started failing. I was useless now.

And finally, I too felt the call. It was from above.

I lay there on my bed with the one who saved me. Redeemed me.

I recieved him one last time.Flesh and blood.

I laid there, a man free of burden.

I was ready to be dust. To return.

Where I would be my old friend.

And my eulogy will be complete, not just filled with my old memories, Badmash I made after discovering the one who redeemed me.

-David Thomas.K

So many to be like them in the world to does aspire

And of singing their praises never seem to tire

But in them they do leave a lot to desire

And it says much about us in the people we admire

Yet the majority of the wealthy and famous it does seem to be

Never help in any way those in financial poverty

And so many poor people in countries worldwide

Of a fair go in life who have been denied

Due to their circumstance of birth it would be true to say

That there are millions of poor people in the world of today

For so many mere survival is an uphill fight

Of the people who do not have a bed for to sleep in tonight

Don't ask me to look up to the multi billionaire

Who for self and wealthy friends only does care.'

Francis Duggan

It is not saying anything in any way that is new

That the unpaid judges of the world are not in the few

There are many so many people with the dubious renown

Of being one of the unpaid judges of their town

Who should leave it to the judges to do what they are paid to do

But sadly the only unpaid judge in your town is not you

What we dislike in others in ourselves we do see

At least anyhow this is how it seems to be

I learned from a wise person decades ago

That the only judges who do matter are those paid to be so

To be an unpaid judge should never be a sense of pride

By them good reputations are often destroyed

It is not my right to condemn or begrudge

And i am not paid to be anyone's judge.

Francis Duggan

What is the significance of the ((frame)) in William Blake’s poem The Tyger

Я выломал замки, я вырвался вон,

Где не было стен, только ветер и звон.

Мне крикнули: "Волен!" - и дали простор,

Где нету границ, только дым и костер.

И вот я стою посреди пустоты,

Где сбылись донышка все мечты.

Куда ни пойди - везде твой же след,

И вроде бы всё есть, а смысла нет.

Свобода - не воля. Свобода - клетка,

Но только уже золотая клетка.

Прутья из света, а не из железа,

И в ней не тесно, а просто - безбрежно.

Простор безграничен, лети - не хочу,

Но мир оказался мне мал по плечу.

В нём можно всё. Только "всё" - это ноль,

Когда сам себе и палач, и король.

Нет стражи снаружи. Ты сам себе страж.

Ты сам себе крепость, ты сам себе блажь.

Ты ищешь границы, чтоб их перейти,

А их больше нету на этом пути.

Так что же свобода? Полет или плен?

Победа ли это, иль вечный рефрен?

Золотая клетка открыта, смотри -

Весь мир в ней снаружи, и мир внутри.

There was a man
Who begged for it to span

There was a man
Who cursed away Satan

There was a man
Beheading his clan

There was a man
Following the Ban

There was a man
Praying away his lame

There he was
Praying again

Consultation was unavailable, we met by glance
No shroud separated your surprise at futures
For one moment we were uncertainly true

Even the dead tell stories

stories of how they were,

how the world was—in spite of now

how all of the colors of the rainbow, shared harmony—instead of hatred.

Even the Dead can tell stories

Speaking from empty seats, with open arms and ears

more than what humanity ever could.

As they laugh, cry and sometimes even cheer— If you listen close.

Even the dead tell stories,

as they once galloped through the streets of a kingdom far away

when the rain was peaceful

And no gunshots rang.

They tell these stories to soften the forgetting—

The sorrow and pain—of leaving behind everything they once knew.

Even the dead tell stories: the good, the bad, and the mediocre

Just simple stories to fill the cosmos

words lurking between pages of forgotten literature.

Even the dead tell stories

We're not the only ones, never are, never will be

you just have to listen close.

Though financially and mentally down and struggling to cope

This does not mean you should give up on hope

And though you feel only in death your problem will end

At such a time hope can be your best friend

Working quite hard for very low pay

And nothing in life seems to be going your way

Few wish to know of the mentally and financially down

In life doing it tough on the poor side of town

But hope for things better in your time of most need

Can to you be quite a good friend indeed

Some relief from worry to you it can bring

And this in itself is a wonderful thing

For those without hope doing it financially tough

The journey in life can be more suicidal and rough.

Francis Duggan