THE UNDECIDABILITY IN MIDMOST ME

In my crippledness in your crowd

I split into Solo and Also; in my alone

I bleed between my shadow and my ego.

Our currents are blurred. My substance

is ubiquitous, my components are common.

And still I conceive I’m composed uniquely.

My tide advances ashore withdraws

advances withdraws once more. That which

I have just resolved I then unresolve again.

Can an invisible man still disappear?

Women in how many cities

have unnoticed my presence?

We wish to apportion the What

that’s beyond outside into a space,

a time, enumeration, and causality, but

there are not words enough to measure

the random ungoverned imagination,

the divine hunger for enduring novelty.

Yet some of you quest for a wholeness

in which these me cease to exist. I’d

become less than this manyed nothingness.

GUINEVERE AND THE MINOTAUR

“Love is just

an affair

of the tongue,”

you say.

“a poetry.”

“But you’re wrong,”

I say.

(Nor is it just.

But it’s enough

to satisfy

us cold,

us hungry,

us soul-

impaired.)

In our masks,

the cynic’s,

the romantic’s,

the two of us,

“This, our hour,

our hieroglyph,

is powered

by a myth —

is it a tower

or labyrinth?”

we ask.

SOCIETY’S SCRIPTS

We live inside our systems of symbols.

A creed, a border, a script for courtship,

we need our ordered dogmas to worship.

Our yous and Is dance to their rituals.

The score is settled. It is all arranged.

(An individual may improvise

within choreography and chorus,

but the rote familiar eases the strange.)

Algorithms determine processes.

The fixed prescriptions neutralize the strains

and routined weather charts predict the rain.

Tested certainties discourage guesses.

We live inside our systems of symbols.

Our yous and Is dance to their rituals.

CIRCUMSTANCE AT THE CENTER OF THE CIRCUMFERENCE

My mind wrestled itself, pinned ‘tween Law and Gospel, Vision and Division. And pondered my place within the world — a time to remember? To dismember?

And then I heard, inside, Jehovah: “Wisdom is your recognition that midgets and giants are members of one family. And the pierced are the parents of the whole. This saith Allah the LORD.”

(A disputatious bluejay argues over the head of the wheelchaired woman.)

And then I heard from inside, Allah: “The dark and the light, the female and the male, the hallowed and the damned — and the wide and varied spectra between — all inhabit the same castle hovels, eat identical fruits and breads, fill their mutual lungs with the same necessary air. They live only to die alike. Thus saith Buddha the LORD.” 

(A frolicsome collie is crushed beneath the wheels of the speeding Mercury.)

And the, from inside I heard Buddha: “Siblings are the sinister and the sincere. The thankless are inseparable from the sanctified. The unhurt and the maimed share one body after all, hidden by illusions of skin and gender, atlas and caste. Thus saith Krishna the LORD.”

(A gynandromorphic monarch flutters to the patient finger of the eager child.)

And then from within came Krishna: “The ancient one was an infant once, just as the babe shall one day age. Nights belong to insomniacs and narcolepts alike, and the sun is owned in equal measure by the famous and the nameless. Thus saith Ra the LORD.”

(A jet fighter scratches its vapor fingernails against the cloudless sky.)

And then I announced to myself:

Mankind is a patchwork of the alienated and the integrated.

Of the squandered and the saved.

Of the vicious and pacific.

Of the sane and the imbecile.

Of ensultaned and enslaved….

And Heaven the shared possession of our various souls, demarcated by social lines and by lines within our minds.

Thus saith  I.

(Ants parade across the yard’s Formica table.)

And I stretched and left the porch.

AGENCY

Of what is built the world?

Of timber, steel, and stone,

with bicep and testosterone?

No. Of powder and foundation.

Where lies the garden’s lure,

in garland or in thorn?

The harem whips and spurs the crown

To accommodate their station.

Deb Hatcher

The last day that I saw Debbie Hatcher, she was just 15 years old. Slender and pretty and dressed in a skirt that hugged her hips, she was cute as a button. She had shoulder length light brown hair and a gold herringbone locket she’d received for her fifteenth birthday. She wore it literally everywhere; she was so proud of being in love with a boy who would bestow such a precious gift on her.

We were standing in the school library, in the Ds, somewhere between Durant and Dante, searching for a likely subject for a book report, when, madly impulsive, I approached her as if in a dream and kissed her lips. She was startled at first, but when the shock had disappeared, she let her guard down and kissed me back. I had known Deb since grade school, but only fantasized about her as a sort of forbidden treasure, lovely to admire from a distance, but strictly unapproachable.

Here I was, Tim Meese, not yet 16, and kissing a girl for the first time. And what a girl! I silently congratulated myself for starting at the very top of the social pyramid. She leaned into me and I into her, until we were both quite lost. At length, old, old Mrs. Kroger — she must have been at least 50 — the school librarian, sneaked down the aisle and coughed peremptorily. We instantly separated, embarrassed to have been found out. Although this was my initial foray into kissing, it was clearly not the frist time that Deb had been kissed. She was far too expert at it to be a novice.

We glanced at Mrs. Kroger, to assess the level of trouble we were in, but she smiled her secret smile and withdrew. I felt supercharged, and Deb seemed similarly affected. She leaned close and whispered to meet her after school at her house; I hastily agreed. And what of the necklace-giving boyfriend? It turned out that his family had moved to the coast two weeks before and so at least he was no longer in contention for Deb’s affections. But I didn’t know this yet.

After lunch, I spied Deb in the corridor between classes, walking with her friends. I smiled at her, but she looked right through me. I blinked. Weren’t we inexorably linked forever, having tasted one another’s lips and even shared a breath? Had I only imagined our reconnoitering in the library? I shook my head and proceeded on to class.

After school let out, I anxiously plodded the three blocks to Maple Street, where Deb’s house stood. When I arrived, I knocked at the door and Mrs. Hatcher, a stay-at-home mom, which nearly all moms were back in the day, invited me in to wait for her daughter. We engaged in small talk and she plied me with pretzels, chips and Pepsis. Gazing about the living room, I spotted a photo of Deb and Jason, the boy who’d given her the locket. I didn’t know him well and stared at him disconsolately, enviously.

Mrs. Hatcher went on to tell me that Jason’s father had taken a job with an aircraft manufacturer in Los Angeles, and so that was the last they would see of Jason. She didn’t seem at all unhappy at the prospect, condemning him as “too progressive,” whatever that meant. Mrs. Hatcher remembered me from second grade, when her daughter and I had been matched up to perform the minuet in some stale elementary school production of a 200-year-old play. She inquired politely how my dancing was commencing. I told her that I was more into The Twist and The Mashed Potato these days, and she sniffed.

After quite a long time, the telephone jangled off the hook and Mrs. Hatcher snatched it up. She listened for some time, drew a sharp breath and said, “I’ll be there.” She looked stricken, and then stared off into space for an interminable moment, and finally turned to me and said, in a choked voice, “You’d better go home, Tim,” and she disappeared into another room. I quietly let myself out.

The telephone call and Mrs. Hatcher’s behavior were a mystery to me, and I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t until the next day at school, when word leaked out. Deb Hatcher was dead. She had copped a ride on an upperclassman’s motorcycle and there had been an accident. Deb, unlike the driver, didn’t have a helmet and had suffered terminal injuries when she fell from the bike and struck her head on the pavement. The driver suffered only minor injuries.

It gave me a weird, eerie, ghostly feeling to know that I was the last boy to ever kiss Deb Hatcher. She’d had her whole life before her: additional boyfriends, a husband, children of her own, a career, perhaps. She was smart; no telling how far she might have gone. And, just maybe, she would have gone there with me. They offered a sort of rudimentary grief counseling at the school and they dedicated the yearbook to Deb and one other boy, who’d died from leukemia. I didn’t see the grief counselor and I didn’t buy the yearbook. I didn’t need the glossy photo to remember Deb. I attended the funeral. They had a closed casket.

2026

He hopes that

2026 

Will be kind.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”

An adventurer, at home.

The soft, suave scent, of these burnt lavenders,

Dwells my mind, whilst I quietly write this poem,

In my living room, books and paintings, masks and gems,

Just keep still… All around the silence reigns over.

Blessed be, o Lord ! Thy peace, granted to a poor boy,

Came with the faculty to work, and learn your books…

I can pray now Thy love, in this shrine full of joy,

Rich refuge for my life, which I am glad none took.

There are the jewelry, tailored clothes, lithographs,

Sea shells and silver lamps, ivories, or gold rings…

All reminding of past battles. – My humble being.

Then I will read the Psalms, the Gospels and some Saints !

Before writing a stance, a try, until I faint…

To express gratitude ! As for an epitaph.

*****

A Christian poem.

When I pray Thee o Lord, my voice, humble but proud,

Raise inner, for Thou knows everything of me,

Then I try to write down, speak up, but never loud,

No for we are not much. Before Thy great army.

We are children to Thee, though. Salt grains for the Earth…

We are friends to the birds, colorful like flowers…

We can be good workers, until the last hour,

We can be good servants if we know what we’re worth.

The paradise immense, where will live forever,

Those amongst us who choose to be His believers,

Is like the treasure a peasant finds in a field…

Soon this field acquired, then the riches revealed,

Everyone will think this person has been wise.

Be pious, be gentle, love, hope… – Jesus advises.

*****

The poet plans for work.

You see me now, well quiet, at my library desk !

Director here. Further, I hear cars passing by,

Further, I see grey clouds… The silence is at stake,

Calm, as I read Plato : moments some wish could buy.

Then I take my pen on : I will write for Roma,

For the woman I love, her lips, their aroma…

I will write for Paris, for London, for Madrid,

For a farm in the snow, then for my youth in need.

I want to write again ! For a trip to Jersey, 

On a boat, whilst a storm was raging the Channel,

I want to write about hiking, and this tunnel…

In Geneva when I questioned my survival.

I will write about my past girlfriends – when opals,

Drizzled from their glances on our soft Odyssey !

*****

Timothee Bordenave is a French author, a poet, novelist and essayist. He has published many books both in French and English. A part of his writings has been translated to various languages and published internationally.

He is also a visual artist as a photographer and a painter, whose works have also been widely shown, in France like in many other countries around the world.

Born in Paris, France, in 1984, he still lives in France today, partaking his days between the capital town and countryside properties. He first worked as a library director, before shifting to be a fulltime author and artist. 

His interest to culture and creativity has brought him to be very active in the local French art community, involving himself notably in the organization of art events for his friends.

Nothing Changes Until You Change

Nothing is changed until you are changed. Many people spend their lives waiting for tomorrow, believing that time itself will improve their situation. They think that one day everything will become better without taking any real action. However, time alone does not create change; only personal effort does.

Imagine that you do nothing except sit in your chair for one hour. What has changed? Almost nothing. You may feel relaxed, but your life remains the same. Now imagine sitting in the same chair for two hours or even longer. Instead of improvement, your body becomes tired, and you may struggle just to stand up. This simple example shows an important truth: doing nothing does not move us forward. In fact, it can slowly harm us. Progress requires action, even if that action is small.

Real change begins when a person decides to act. Every small step taken today shapes the future. Waiting for the “right time” often becomes an excuse for fear or laziness. Time helps only those who move with it, not those who wait for it to pass. If someone wants a different result, they must become a different version of themselves through discipline, effort, and consistency.

In conclusion, life should be lived in the present, not postponed to tomorrow. Understanding that today is the only moment we truly control is the key to success and happiness. Change your actions, and your life will change with them.

Chatgpt also helped me. 

I am Ozodbek Yarashov and I live in republic of Karakalpakistan, Turtkul district. I am a young curious person and I am interested in English (in fact, my English is almost C1), and math. In the future, I am going to be a developer, not just a developer, but a developer who changes the world! I always believe in myself. I recommend to everyone, change your thoughts, change yourself!

My Spiritual Home

If I had an acre of fertile land,

A thatched cottage to shield from wind, cold, heat and damp,

Why would I squeeze into the steel and concrete jungle?

No matter how large a house can be measured,

The human heart remains unfathomable.

The fragrance of wildflowers along the path is natural and pure.

Even amidst thousands of houses and lanes, a single glance is enough.

If the heart is filled with light, brightness will abound everywhere.

Lights shine on faces, affairs cater to the powerful and rich.

I’ve wasted my prosperous days in vain,

Touched by the vastness of this worldly way.

I yearn to move to an isolated island,

Watching over the empty wilderness on all sides.

A single ladle of water, a single drink,

Are enough to make my heart turn toward the light.

January 2, 2026, 08:51

Comment: A Search for a Pure Land amidst the Hustle and Bustle

Anna Keiko’s “My Spiritual Home” is like a clear spring, flowing with a deep longing for a pure spiritual world amidst the hustle and bustle of the mundane world, touching and inspiring readers’ hearts.

The imagery in the poem is ingeniously used with strong contrasts. The “acre of fertile land” and the “thatched cottage” form a sharp contrast with the world built of “steel and concrete”. The former is simple and rustic, an ideal haven of peace and freedom; while the latter, though its space can be measured, has an unfathomable human heart, revealing the spiritual emptiness behind material prosperity. The natural fragrance of the “wildflower path” and the worldly disturbances of the “thousands of houses and lanes” further highlight the poet’s yearning for nature and authenticity, as well as her alienation from the utilitarian and mundane.

The emotional expression is sincere and profound. The poet directly conveys her inner belief: “If the heart is filled with light, brightness will abound everywhere”, spreading a positive and uplifting energy and making people believe that inner light can dispel all darkness. Regarding worldly prosperity, the poet laments in无奈 (helplessness), “I’ve wasted my prosperous days in vain, Touched by the vastness of this worldly way.” In a reality where power and wealth reign supreme, her loneliness and confusion are evident, and this emotion can easily resonate with readers.

The artistic conception is profound and full of philosophy. The “yearning to move to an isolated island” is not an escape from reality but a pursuit of inner peace. In the empty wilderness, she can blend with nature and find her true self. “A single ladle of water, a single drink, Are enough to make my heart turn toward the light” reveals that happiness does not lie in material abundance but in inner fulfillment and tranquility, containing profound life wisdom.

The language is simple yet full of charm, without the embellishment of flowery words, yet it can accurately convey emotions and thoughts. “If I had an acre of fertile land, A thatched cottage to shield from wind, cold, heat and damp” is simple and plain but creates a sense of peace and serenity. The rhythm is also natural and harmonious, forming a rhythm through word combinations and sentence patterns, enhancing the poem’s appeal.

“My Spiritual Home” is an excellent work that leads us to stop in the hustle and bustle, examine our inner selves, and pursue that piece of peace and light that belongs to us.

One Horizon for the New Year

At the gate of the year,

we remove our shoes—

the earth is sacred,

wounded by too many names.

From the breath of deserts

to the patience of olive trees,

the world whispers:

enough of division.

O New Year,

teach us the art of return:

return to the human face,

so we may recognize one another

beyond fear and banners.

Let peace be

not a slogan,

but a daily gesture—

bread shared,

a wound listened to.

We were made from one breath,

and to that breath we return,

different in paths,

equal in dignity.