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this morning poet’s sleeping heart groggily uninspired not sickly dead or dying taking a rest day © 2025 Bruno Talerico Stafford challenge day 31/365
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As I pen these thoughts, is the weight of history shifting like the swaying of the pines? If time is a construct, an invention of my mind, attempting to grasp the meaning of nothing and infinity, can a new experience point backward in time, giving fresh meaning to a past event, like sunrise illuminating…
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like pink cotton puffs on pale blue placemats clouds drift lazily over the hillside. cock crows and, full of promise, a new day begins © 2025 Bruno Talerico Stafford challenge day 29/365.
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eerie drone drifts through fog shrouded heather frugal Dougal blowing highland pipes (wonder whats under his kilt) giraffes in pink lingerie know queen Victorias secret hints of Coco’s chanel mingle with sparkling wine corks pop fireworks stop smooth skinned super mods super bods swish sway sashay down Milanese runway pushing products no one needs and…
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Hey there. Listen up, everyone, Life’s a roaring river, class-five rapids— twisting, turning, churning, unpredictable— like syncopation in a jazz riff. Around each bend, a new scene, flashes of color, explosions of light! We are not just shadows on a blank canvas; we are bold brushstrokes. Each note a different vibe, a jam session of…
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After the divorce, he began navigating a new landscape, focusing on self-growth, embracing a frugal life. One rainy day, he discovered the book on the discount shelf of a thrift shop, cover faded yet inviting, a beacon of hope for self-discovery. A fictional classic, brimming with promises of adventure and wisdom. He added it…
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life is necessarily unpredictable, that may be what makes it possible. are we different enough to stay interesting and similar enough to stay together? when you don’t think you can move forward, when you’re sad about your yesterdays, not sure about what will happen tomorrow, your purpose is just being. © 2025 Bruno Talerico …
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Birth is the apex, the pinnacle, the summit. From the very beginning, we fall. With our first breath, we begin slipping, sliding downward toward our demise. The downslope— steep for some, shallower for others, inevitable for all. There is only one direction: down. Down, into shadows of despair, down, into realms of possibility, down, into…
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frustrated finches gather at frozen birdbath waiting for springtime © 2025 Bruno Talerico Stafford challenge day 23/365.
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dawn and doom asleep embraced by bare branches. somber grieving winds float, feather-like, over plains and valley, solidly settling on frozen pond. white hills, white meadows in contrast only with themselves. © 2025 Bruno Talerico Stafford challenge day 22/365
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