M • Z
LightNews LightNews
banner
kl1mz.bsky.social
M • Z
@kl1mz.bsky.social
150 followers 66 following 460 posts
I..
One letter. One word. One sigh.

My words are my ushabtis
bearing echoes of the pyramids, the cosmos,
and the screams I was coerced to deny.
Posts Replies Media Videos
kl1mz.bsky.social
To the briefly earthbound soul who taught me how to see the light even in the darkest of nights.
Rest in peace.
October 30, 2025 at 12:05 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
Astor Piazzolla, the master of the bandoneón, and his New Tango Quintet performing Milonga del Ángel, live in Utrecht, 1984.

#Music #Tango 🪗🎶🖤

www.youtube.com/watch?v=h0ha...
Astor Piazzolla, playing the bandoneón.
June 29, 2025 at 10:31 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
“I am who I am, and that’s all I need to be.”
–The Little Prince, 1943.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
(Writer and Pilot)

Born: June 29, 1900, France.
Died: July 31, 1944, in a plane crash over the Mediterranean.

#OnThisDay #Quotes
Photo of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, with an open book in his hands, sitting in front of a several shelves filled with books and a lamp.
June 29, 2025 at 7:26 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
A reworked poem for this week's #PoemsAbout inquisitive #ItsASin prompt.
Thanks as always to the dedicated hosting by @alanparry83.bsky.social and @brokenspinearts.bsky.social

#Poetry #PoetryCommunity #BlueSkyPoetry
The Real Villain One who's born Amidst the storm Knows no fear from howling wind Fury was his branded art For what's lightning to fire that knows no fear, and what's thunder to the first volunteer. Damned from birth Named for a curse Even though he has not sinned Hell was made his only chart For what's fate to an angel doomed to fail, and what's destiny to wings denied a trail. Damned with rage Pushed offstage Till he traced the lie god pinned Mercy was a poisoned dart Wrecking humankind now his chosen path, their world—his hell—kindled by heaven's wrath.
June 27, 2025 at 1:58 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
#MPPrompt #Revenge

#Poetry #PoetryCommunity #BlueSkyPoetry
Revenge Recipe Ingredients: A gherkin, the hateful heart of the dish. Chocolate spread, the delicious sweet deception. Biscuit crumbs, the remains of better choices. Frying oil, for deep-drowning sorrow. Pop rocks, the final fizz of self-respect. Method: Dip the gherkin in the chocolate spread, making sure to fully coat your spite. Roll in the biscuit crumbs to add texture, fragments of a dozen broken promises. Deep-fry until golden brown, with a crispy shell of false satisfaction. Sprinkle with pop rocks, while still hot with poor decisions. Serving: Pair with a stiff drink, and eat alone in the dark. Tasting notes: On the first bite, a sharp vinegary punch complementing the initial sweetness. Mid-chew, a chaotic crunchy texture overpowered by an oily existential paradox. Then the aftertaste, a pop sensory detonation of perpetual regret and loss of dignity. Enjoy!
June 26, 2025 at 8:24 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
#VSS365 #Vagary
#Poetry #PoetryCommunity #BlueSkyPoetry

Thank you Anagha for such a splendid hosting, with amazingly imaginative prompt choices. 🙏🌟
A River's Archive Vaginate reeds beside a riverbed arch like a mother’s accepting arms over a vagrant’s hollowed frame discarded by his fellow humans. A vagabond wandering by lost like autumn's last leaves mourns the vagaries of life that marked their fates. Both vague shadows, of their past selves once vagile as the wind now meeting their ends.
June 26, 2025 at 10:34 AM
kl1mz.bsky.social
For today's #LetItGo #PromptCombo hosted by the brilliant @thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social, here's my #SetYourIntention to #MyDeclutter of #MyLovedOnes attempt.
The Ghost You said it to me with a sigh, "in every final goodbye, there’s one who never really leaves." And I nodded, the romantic fool I was, thinking of the dancing smoke of a solitary candle whispering my birthday wish to a ghost. Then you twisted the knife, "what’s haunting is that the other actually leaves for good." A decade later, I’m still spinning the same elegy. The room still tilts when I remember the look in your eyes, when you said those words. How your ghostemporary love still stains my walls. How my lamenternal grief still warms your seat. And I nod, the romantic fool I am, knowing one walked out whistling, while the other is spending a lifetime sweeping up the confetti of memories, alone. The cruelty isn’t living with a ghost, it’s that the ghost doesn’t know it’s a ghost. The one who left, left nothing behind. While the one who didn't leave, is left with the weight of a laugh caught in the throat, and the burden of a shadow lingering in every breath. I thought I knew endings, but my gauche ghost turned me into a cemetery where it keeps burying and unearthing, and burying and unearthing itself.
June 23, 2025 at 2:38 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
Happy
longest day shortest night of the year, but only in the northern hemisphere
Day
from #Egypt

along with one of the greatest poems written about summer
by John Clare

#Summer #Solstice
#Poetry #PoetryCommunity
The sun setting over the right shoulder of the Sphinx, and between the pyramids Khafre and to a slight angle Khufu, during the spring equinox 2020. (Image credit: Egypt Ministry of Antiquities archives) John Clare's sonnet about summer, written in 1841. I love to see the summer beaming forth And white wool sack clouds sailing to the north I love to see the wild flowers come again And mare blobs stain with gold the meadow drain And water lillies whiten on the floods Where reed clumps rustle like a wind shook wood Where from her hiding place the Moor Hen pushes And seeks her flag nest floating in bull rushes I like the willow leaning half way o'er The clear deep lake to stand upon its shore I love the hay grass when the flower head swings To summer winds and insects happy wings That sport about the meadow the bright day And see bright beetles in the clear lake play
June 21, 2025 at 7:21 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
Here's "an invitation" as my submission for #PromptCombo, warmly hosted by @victoriaspires.bsky.social with this week's intriguing theme #Hidden.

#Poetry #PoetryCommunity
An Invitation You smother every spark you own, then curse the dark you bear alone. You cling to the need to fade from sight, While starving for one who’ll seek your light. You beg the shadows to swallow you whole, Yet yearn for the honour of standing tall. Maybe if you dare disclose your every scar, the world will pause to witness how rare you are.
June 21, 2025 at 12:12 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
For this week's evocative theme #Transition, here's my #PoemsAbout submission.

Thank you @alanparry83.bsky.social @brokenspinearts.bsky.social for your committed hosting, and @karenpgonzalez.bsky.social for lending a gracious helping-hand this week.

Feedback more than welcome.
#PoetryCommunity
Would I? Every day, I dismantle myself, lay out my pieces on the table, just like my father used to do when he wanted to fix something he knew was broken. I'd examine every piece, probe for permanent damage, then reassemble a new me— always more crumbled than the one I cobbled the day before. Some days, I wonder if I would dare leave my heart out, cracked but still clicking, just to see if anyone would notice.
June 20, 2025 at 1:25 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
Sekhmet, the Ancient Egyptian warrior goddess depicted as a lioness. Daughter of Ra, she was associated with both healing and medicine but also war and plagues.

#BlueSkyRelay #Hieroglyph
#VSS365 #Vortex
#MPPrompt
#Poetry #PoetryCommunity
#AncientEgypt
Goddess Sekhmet engraving on temple wall in Kom Ombo, Egypt. Goddess Sekhmet statue in Egyptian museum. Goddess Sekhmet statue at Karnak, Egypt. Fate.. A myth. A scar. A weight. My body is an ancient temple wall etched with Sekhmet’s hieroglyphs; a healer, a plague-bringer, and every muted roar no one can translate. The lines in my skin are my scripture— carving; the healers hands clutching warmth, the plague-bringer fangs tasting blood, and every muted roar hardened to stone. They dig deeper— enduring the heavy weight of a kismet that craves to reach the bone. They bleed when touched— unleashing a flood vortex of every wound I've ever known.
June 19, 2025 at 4:35 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
#VSS365 #Realm
#Poetry #PoetryCommunity
You build a magic realm when passing glances sway, without an introduction your pulses intertwine. The air grows thick with ardent words you just can't say, without a voice you draw lyrics lewd yet divine. The mystic tilt of their half-seen smile warmly fills your fairy-tale world like fields of what might have been. The hint of their silk figure, now uncharted hills, waiting for your soft Magellan touch clandestine. Yet life is cruel. The chanting dream dissolves, and then you blink. Your world turns cold with crushing loneliness. No whispered vows, no forever after, that's when you drown in life's glum traffic lost with no address. Still, you hoard those passing glances like stolen gold, A realm where you feel the love, even if untold.
June 18, 2025 at 11:43 AM
kl1mz.bsky.social
#VSS365 #Primordial
#Acrostic #Limerick
#Poetry #PoetryCommunity
Primordial? I never heard this word before Rather interesting word for me to explore I like to grab More English vocab Otherwise I will never break my Scrabble score Rhymes and riddles are my blessing and my curse Do I use it to compose an acrostic verse I have the wits And here it fits Let me know if this poem could get any worse
June 16, 2025 at 10:14 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
#Whistpr #Pearl
#VSS365 #Self
#Poetry #PoetryCommunity
An Antidote To Forgetfulness She looks sad tonight. She's not wearing her pearl necklace. If only I could wring the silent sea in my eyes. If only I could convince the solitary salt to harden in the oyster of my eyelids. If only I could forge you pearls of me, shinning with the endless moonlit tide of my self. If only I could break the threshold of reality, bead them into a necklace, clasp it with my breath round your neck. My tears— your smile— the joyful ache of remembrance.
June 15, 2025 at 4:08 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
Rima L
by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Original in Spanish, then my translation in English, maintaining the poem's sentence structure.

#SmallPoemSunday
#Poetry #PoetryCommunity
Lo que el salvaje que con torpe mano hace de un tronco a su capricho un dios, y luego ante su obra se arrodilla, eso hicimos tú y yo. Dimos formas reales a un fantasma, de la mente ridícula invención, y hecho el ídolo ya, sacrificamos en su altar nuestro amor. What the savage that with clumsy hand, makes of a trunk to his whim a god, and then before his work kneels, that's what we did, you and I. We gave real forms to a phantom, of the mind a ridiculous invention, and once the idol was made, we sacrificed on its altar our love.
June 15, 2025 at 9:10 AM
kl1mz.bsky.social
#Ushabtis were figurines placed in ancient Egyptian tombs to serve the dead in the afterlife. Inscribed with spells from the Book of the Dead, they awoke when called upon to answer for their masters.

#AncientEgypt
Rows of Ushabtis. Rows of Ushabtis stood-up for display. Multiple rows of Ushabtis displayed on a table on location outside an entrance, while 3 Egyptian workers stand by. My words are ushabtis— harbouring; the silent defiance of the pyramids, the unheard whispers of the cosmos, and every scream I once entombed. They stand guard— awakened to rise and resurrect the buried dreams I want exhumed. They answer when summoned— decoding the cryptic venom of every curse I have consumed.
June 13, 2025 at 9:53 AM
kl1mz.bsky.social
Loved the lines about the hummed anthem as a symbol of disunity. Choosing Iberian rather than Spanish for the title is such a shrewd decision, perfectly underscores the identity struggle woven throughout the poem. 🙌✨

And that final was indeed a Fierce Battle!
June 13, 2025 at 7:22 AM
kl1mz.bsky.social
Inspiration:

A Folk Balad called "The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry"
en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gre...

Recorded as "Silkie" by Joan Baez in 1961.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccNd...

#VSS365 #Skin
#Poetry #PoetryCommunity
The Ballad of What Was Taken A ballad that belongs to the wind, to the salt of the sea, to a man who was only a guest in his own life. The silkie returns, not for love, but for the pull of the tide in his bones, for a bed full of echoes, and the understanding that some skins, once shed, can never be worn again. The sea takes. The sea always takes. And the land. The land only holds what the sea doesn’t want yet.
June 10, 2025 at 5:31 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
The curse of the non-belongers.
June 10, 2025 at 4:52 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
Another evocative #prompt by @malformed-poetry.bsky.social

Q: "Where does the sun go when it sets?"
A: 🤔... to the dark side, I presume.

#Poetry
#PoetryCommunity
#Mythology
Sol Invictus I don't set I don't rise or fall I am not bound by a horizon I overcome I force creatures of dust to invent the night then morning hope their own daily ritual against oblivion I see my strength when they close their eyes in cowardice in ignorance I force growth through suffering I am the wound that doesn't scar I give light not a gift not comfort but a test I am the fire that demands they justify their existence I shall expand swallow their laughter swallow their prayer swallow them whole not in wrath not for conquest but because their emptiness is begging to be filled And they shall name me: God.
June 7, 2025 at 4:55 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
Quoted is Zantedeschia Rehmannii, or pink arum #lily.

The Zantedeachia genus has several species depending on colour, for example Aethiopica is white and Elliottiana is yellow. There is even a dark maroon variety called the Black Star.

All magnificently beautiful flowers, but also toxic.

#Flowers
A bunch of deep maroon Zantedeachia Black Star flowers.
June 7, 2025 at 9:28 AM
kl1mz.bsky.social
(Continuation of the Alt Text)
The theatre yawns empty. No one to stand in ovation or even clap— just deities slumped in first-row seats. One snores in pending apocalypse; one drools asteroids into stardust popcorn. The crumpled programme slips from the hands of the one sagging in the aisle throne. Near the exit, another weightedly drifts, head bowed like a shamed playwright, toward a black hole’s open mouth. Yet we don't notice. We don't see how small we shrink under the lights, how the script we keep rewriting tears at the seams of a grand play. Backstage in the dressing rooms, we still rouge our cheeks with blood, unaware of the neon light marquee blinking on the churning tickets— End of the Human Race: The Musical.
June 6, 2025 at 10:14 AM
kl1mz.bsky.social
My offering for this week's inspirational themes of #Spectating and #Spectacle.

Thank you @rfsmith.bsky.social for hosting #PromptCombo and thank you @alanparry83.bsky.social and @brokenspinearts.bsky.social for hosting #PoemsAbout

Feedback more than welcome.
Spectating A Spectacle We erect glass towers that yell; Members only— where hollow-voiced CEOs chant, "Growth!" while the orchestra’s cellos splinter into eviction notices. We farm gold fields of grain, enough to feed every starving mouth— trade them with rigged hands while the stock market’s violin sobs; Famine in D Minor. We build pumps to bleed the earth from its dinosaur veins— while somewhere, a seal pup pirouettes an accidental shift into a tar-black swan. We wire the world in binary, hoard ghost coins in digital clouds, as robot billionaires birth AIs— while the uninsured rest in peace as @[deleted] profiles. We launch satellites that murmur, "turn left in 100 metres" to cure our chronic lostness— while they blow kisses as coordinates to guided missiles. Oak trees unfurl their shade like a borderless currency, roots chasing freedom, not profit— while their branches draft leases for birds, in rent-free leaves. Lush forests share their berries, like laughter among tails and beaks, with no barcode on the packaging— while the wind conducts symphonies of crescendo mating calls. Relentless tides arrive each day, licking life clean without invoices— while scouring sea-salt hands stitch the split sky in colour with rainbow threads. Bountiful rains code the earth, in encrypted delugescript, while the soil deciphers its input— a treasure without a toll or discriminating logins. Migrating birds etch their flight plans into the wind’s muscle memory— while an ancient algorithm guides their path with no coordinates, toward radiant warmth. (Continued in the comments)
June 6, 2025 at 10:12 AM
kl1mz.bsky.social
#2WordPrompt #Hard #Salad
#Whistpr #Swan
#VSS365 #Strait
#VSSDaily #Stupid

#Poetry
#PoetryCommunity
all prompts today have words that start with S it's hard to use them all at once I guess So let me tell the story of a swan who stole the salad I'd left on the lawn He flapped toward the strait with foolish pride Got hit by a car and instantly died Don't fret, his life was not a total waste That stupid bird roasted had a great taste
June 3, 2025 at 4:24 PM
kl1mz.bsky.social
What's the limit for the number of submissions to this one, Alan? 🙂🤷

#WRITEITRAW
@brokenspinearts.bsky.social

#Poetry
#PoetryCommunity
Ars Anatomica We live in a society that kneels before the mirror of appearances, worshipping the fake masks we hide behind. It recoils in horror when forced to see our insides— the wet chaos of our guts, the dry rot of our morals. I revere the shattering of masks, the rupture of bodies. I crave the splitting of ribs like book covers, to read the raw text, to drink the rusted ink within. I’d gladly choose to suffocate in the stench of their truth if it means I never breathe the perfume of their lies again.
June 1, 2025 at 1:01 PM