Month: November 2025

Things Got In The Way – 29th November 2025

~ shaun tenzenmen ~ 5 Comments

Inspired and paraphrased from the start of this post at Spinning Visions.
5th Dec 2025 – Shared with dVerse OLN #397 as this one didn’t get many eyes yet.

We used to sing on the sidewalks,
pen crazy slogans on the back of our hand,
rambled on philosophically,
ignorant of all that the future had planned.

Then came the thinking, as others pointed out
when confronting everything we’d say;
we didn’t realise that we knew who we were
until too many things got in the way.

Tiny Town – 27th November 2025

~ shaun tenzenmen ~ 8 Comments

This is the town that time forgot,
and GPS no longer works;
The place that never moved forward;
residents full of quacks and quirks.

Within its limits, you are cornered;
this is the town that time forgot;
With its rituals, no one questions;
this is a map without a dot.

Roads that leave town are suggestions,
the words are full of many paths;
This is the town that time forgot;
always the same in photographs.

Rare visitors soon lose the plot;
the centre is just out of shot;
One day, its history just stopped;
this is the town that time forgot.

Written for the Chimeric Poetry Scavenger Hunt:
write a Quatern with a Chain Rhyme.

The Ritual – 24th November 2025

~ shaun tenzenmen ~ 2 Comments

A blessed pilgrimage
with a hint of purpose;

The glory of the moon
still hanging;

Footpaths
wet with drizzle;

People sniffling,
gambling on a bus that may not come;

Streetlights fade,
worms start to worry;

But the barista is already there,
running through their own ritual.

Inspired by the first couple of lines from this totally unconnected Substack post by Joe Nichols (but it is a fun read on a different topic).

A Minor Role – 23rd November 2025

~ shaun tenzenmen ~ 33 Comments

There’s a dead mosquito on my dashboard,
on her back, legs pointing up in the air;
Perhaps overfed, on my blood engorged;
I’m not sure how long she’s been lying there.

I’ve never been one for cleaning my cars;
something that my wife cannot comprehend.
A minor role to play in my memoirs;
I don’t know her history, only her end.

Would it be so weird to give her a name,
something infused with deeper meaning?
Well, no matter, there’s nothing to explain;
she’ll be gone once my wife does the cleaning.

Shared with W3 #186 – an unimportant thing. This is an ongoing true story.

Empty AI – 22nd November 2025

~ shaun tenzenmen ~ 5 Comments

A is for the Ache inside my vacant chest,
the hollow, yet weighty uninvited guest;

B is for the Bridges that I burned too fast,
their embers scattered to a forgotten past;

C is for the Clock upon the wall,
whose ticking measures nothing much at all;

D is for the Doorway where we say goodbye,
and the emptiness gathers to multiply;

E is for Ennui….

The idea inspired by this Existential Comic (#602) and given a hand by AI (hence the title).

So, This Is The Free Country – 21st November 2025

~ shaun tenzenmen ~ 14 Comments

Shared with dVerse Poetics – ‘So This Is…’

Prathet Thai (ประเทศไทย) literally ‘free nation’
Phra Athit (พระอาทิตย์) The Celestial Emperor.
Mae Khong (แม่ของ) River known as the Mekong in the West.
Mae Posop (แม่โพสพ) The Rice Goddess
The Naga (พญานาค) The Great Serpent
Mae Suay Dawan (แม่สวยดาวัน) The sun seeking reflection.
Nang Ron (นางร้อน) Invisible but felt everywhere.
Krungthep (กรุงเทพ) Bangkok
Phee WaeLa (ผีเวลา) The embodiment of lazy afternoons

Phra Athit, celestial emperor,
leads his royal procession each day
across the shimmering sky.
Breathing life into the rice paddies,
his golden robes gild temple roofs
and commands the reverence of the Mae Khong.

The hardy must endure his midday glare
until a truce is brokered
with Mae Posop and the Naga,
and so the seasons share the throne.

Mae Suay Dawan brushes pastel dawn
over the Andaman Sea
jewels of dew at her feet,
a gown woven from the first warm hush of morning.
Her quiet radiance outshines
the golden trumpet trees.

Nang Ron, lazy and playful trickster,
throws a heavy, humid blanket
over the melting asphalt of Krungthep.
Mirages rise like whispered promises of cool,
eyelids sag with heat;
she lulls us gently toward our hammocks.

The chef grills the city in a giant wok,
the rent is paid in sweat.

Phee Waela draws out the drones
of the cicadas
melting away afternoons.
The breath of the slumbering dragon,
an endless exhale.