POETRY
The Munchie Monster
It starts with a tickle, a grumble, a growl,
A whisper so faint, but soon it’s a howl.
The tummy awakens, a beast in disguise,
With cravings so wild, it’s hard to deny.
At first, just a nibble, a cracker, some cheese,
But the hunger keeps building, relentless as fleas.
Popcorn? Not enough. A bag’s just a tease.
Next, it’s a pickle. Or maybe… three?
The fridge becomes art, a glorious display,
Of sauces and snacks in a smorgasbord way.
Leftover pizza? A heavenly bite.
But now I need chocolate. Oh no, it’s a plight!
Cereal for dinner? Ice cream for lunch?
Who cares for order when you’re in the crunch?
The chips are all gone, the dip’s looking sad,
And now I’m eyeing a doughnut gone bad.
But then there’s a pause, a moment to think,
Do I need to sauté? Or whip up a drink?
But nah, creativity’s for folks with control,
Right now, it’s all about filling this hole.
As crumbs rain down and the feast’s nearly through,
I gaze at my haul and whisper, “Who knew?”
The munchies, my friend, a force to respect,
A journey of chaos I’ll never regret.
By John Swanepoel
Stoned at Sunrise
Woke before the birds this time,
barefoot on the dew-wet porch,
coffee cooling in a chipped old mug
and a slow smile creeping in with the haze.
The joint is small,
but the moment is massive.
Sky spills open in quiet gold,
and even the clouds look like they’re vibing.
A spider’s web glints on the fencepost,
like it caught a piece of the cosmos,
and the wind—barely there—
whispers secrets I forget before I can write them down.
No rush.
No noise.
Just the world waking up soft,
and me, high enough to hear it hum.
Somewhere, deadlines exist.
But not here.
Not now.
Here, the only thing that matters
is the sun peeling back the night
and the peace that comes
when you finally stop chasing
and just are.
By Amy B
Ode to the Lost Lighter
Oh, Bic of blue, my trusty flame,
we sparked joy — quite literally —
and now you vanish without a name,
a mystery wrapped in greenery.
You were right here, I swear on the stash,
in the pocket? No. Under the couch?
I’ve checked every drawer, every ash,
even flipped cushions like a frantic grouch.
My bowl sits packed in silent despair,
waiting for your fiery kiss.
The air is thick with unmet flair —
a high, denied. A moment missed.
I suspect foul play.
Someone swiped you, I’m sure.
Or maybe… I lit you, walked away,
then left you on some random floor.
I’ll find you in a week or two;
by then I’ll have bought five more.
Still — none will do the things you do,
click, spark, and open a metaphor.
Farewell, dear Bic.
You served me well.
Your absence stings.
Your silence? Hell.
By Quentin Haslett
Breathe Like the Trees
I always rush —
chasing clocks, chasing thoughts,
chasing versions of myself
that never seemed to fit.
Now, I sit.
Back against bark,
lungs syncing with leaves,
and I remember
how stillness can speak.
The trees don’t shout.
They don’t sprint.
They just stand,
and somehow, that’s enough.
Roots deep in yesterday,
branches stretching toward whatever comes.
No fear of change —
just the patience to grow
one ring at a time.
The wind moves through them,
and they don’t resist.
They bend.
They sway.
And still, they stay grounded.
I think I get it now.
The quiet doesn’t mean nothing is happening.
It means everything is happening
at the right pace.
So I breathe.
Slow. Full. Present.
And I try, for once,
to be a little more tree.
By Katherine Pretorius
A Puff of Peace
A puff of weed to fill a need,
A moment’s calm, a gentle speed.
The world slows down, the thoughts align,
A fleeting peace, a spark divine.
No rush, no race, just mellow flow,
A quiet space where spirits grow.
A puff, a pause, the mind takes flight,
To softer vibes and softer nights.
By Astral