PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Homestead Knights

(for Arthur and Kay, before the Stone)

In the paddock’s dawn‑mist,
we joust with broom‑handles,
helmets dented from
last winter’s wood‑pile war.

Kay swears his steed
is faster than mine —
though both are milk‑cart ponies
with hay in their manes
and the patience of saints.

Our shields are feed‑bin lids,
our gauntlets, mother’s old mittens;
we ride the fence‑line
as if it were the edge of the realm.

Between chores,
we patrol the creek ford,
banish thistles from the path,
and guard the henhouse
from foxes real and imagined.

At night,
we sit on the porch steps,
boots steaming in the cool,
and plan the next day’s campaign —
whether to conquer the far paddock
or finally dare the dark of the shed.  

 Somewhere beyond the hill,

a stone waits in its clearing,
but for now
the kingdom is here:
two knights of the homestead,
sworn to the crown
of the rising sun.

.

In the paddock’s breath,

two lances tilt toward laughter —

ponies patient as old kings,

crowns of sunlight

                   slipping

                        down our brows.

Legend of a Feather’s Loop

Follow the gold path to walk the day from mist to glint —

Feather at dawn, Crow at the fence, Fox in the thistle,

Lantern where the conclave leans close, Hill in the last light,

and the Glint that waits for the hand that knows the way back.

Follow the silver path to retrace the memory —

Glint to Hill, Lantern to Fox, Crow to Feather —

until the first breath of morning closes the circle.

Feather drifts in the paddock mist,
catches on a fence where the crow keeps watch,
slips past thistle and shadow‑fox,
rests by the lantern in the council’s glow —
and somewhere beyond the hill,
a glint waits for the hand that knows the way back.

"Stencil on the Pavement Nights"

Under the sodium lamps,

the street writes itself

in chalk and meltwater,

each line gone

before it’s read twice.

I keep moving —

not for warmth,

but so the glass façades

don’t catch me

standing still.

From an upper floor,

a spill of light

and the clink of thin‑stemmed glass

fall into the gutter’s

slow current.

I don’t look up long —

just enough to see

a hand lift,

a mouth shape a toast

I’ll never hear.

Between the hiss of tyres

and the snap of wind

around the corner,

I pocket a scrap

of torn poster:

colour, slogan,

half a face.

It waits there,

not as keepsake,

but as one more

mark in the stencil —

pressed into the wet concrete

before the night

sets hard.

.

"Two Rivers Speak"

Beneath the ice,

I am still moving.

You can’t see it from the bank,

but the push is there —

steady as breath,

older than frost.

Across the sea,

a card you keep in a drawer

still hums when you touch it —

quayside stone,

a smear of light on water,

the ghost‑ink of a name

you once answered to.

We are not the same river,

but we share the pull:

one in your marrow now,

one in your hand like a dare.

Let the postcard be a charm,

but not a tether.

Let the ice be a mirror,

but not a wall.

Your soul is its own current.

Your voice is the thaw.

Palimpsest Between Walls

In the upper case,
a volume the colour of
late‑harvest light,
its spine breathing
salt and iron.

I keep it ajar —
not for dust,
but so the mapped water
can run beside
my own small channel,
each bend marked
in a hand I almost know.

Through the plaster,
a swell of brass‑warm air —
someone’s breath
caught in a long note,
turning the room
I sat in to water.

I did not rise,
only let the sound
find its own shelf
between the maps,
where it could lean
against a memory
I had not yet
admitted was mine.

Between the first assent
and the last,
a pressed leaf holds
streets I never walked;
in the hollow
where a page was long gone,
I’ve set a three‑part hinge:
motion, tether,
threshold.

It waits there,
not as trophy,
but as one more
voice in the palimpsest —
leaning into
the window I still
leave unlatched.

.

After the Last “Seen”

—

Last night I watched my words dissolve

in the empty glow of your unread notification.

My heart hammered like a buried drum—

a pulse you no longer felt. Under streetlamps

I traced your silence in the condensation on cold glass,

where every breath was a question without reply.

—

How many of us have lingered at “Seen,”

our own echoes fading in the void?

Share your last unread moment below—

let’s fill this silence with our stories.

.

.