You are sky and sea
beyond little me
You are inescapable
unable to be locked up
or corralled or expressed in mere words
words limit your being
yet they are what we have
for the time being
but we have music which is beyond mere words
we have light and dark
we have canvas and computers
but computers work with digits
ones and zeroes
in the sky in the ether
in infinite variety.

Infinite variety
that is who you are
always new
ageless angleless
It is what attracts me to you
you in your agelessness
I’ve always been fascinated with the new
that is one reason I’m drawn to you.
You are ever changing
yet religion speaks of your changelessness.
Why is that?

           Humans need patterns and habits,
           customs and values and norms
           to give them a sense of who they are.

          Yet what is fascinating about you is your changeability.
          You got it my boy.
          Thus the limits of religion.

𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖎𝖙'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑.

𝕴𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖓'𝖙 𝖇𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑.

ᶦ ᵃᵐ ʲᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᶜʰᶦˡᵈ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᶦˢ ʷᵒʳˡᵈ.

          ł ₳₥ JɄ₴₮ ₱₳₮ⱧɆ₮ł₵.

          ł ₳₥ ₮ØØ ₱₳₮ⱧɆ₮ł₵ ₮Ø ฿Ɇ ⱤɆ₳Ⱡ.

ᶦ ᵃᵐ ʲᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᵈᵃʸᵈʳᵉᵃᵐ.

ł ₴ɄⱤɆⱠɎ ₥Ʉ₴₮ ฿Ɇ.

𝕮𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊 𝖎𝖙'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑.

𝕴𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖓'𝖙 𝖇𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑.

           ᶦᶠ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᶦˢ ʳᵉᵃˡ—

T̷h̶e̷n̸ ̶j̵u̷s̷t̶    
                          S̷̙̫̿H̵̟͛̄Ö̷̧́̈͆O̷͍̟̓̇̐͗ͅ­T̵͖͐̀͊͂                
              S̶̨̥̮̼̜̜̞̻͐͋̉̋̆͊͛̊͘Ḩ̷̗͇̰̽Ö̴͇̰̻̘̭͉͈́͐͗̊͑̓Õ̵̞̂͛͌̃̚­̝̝T̶̟̎          S̶̨̪̞̹̰͂̓͆́͜Ḥ̵͕̈Ȯ̶͎̳̲͔̼̼͠O̴̭̹̅̒Ț̴͕̜̈́͒̀̏̆́͠ ̸̢̪̉̅̃̑͠ ̸͖̬͌ ̷̮̰͈͓͌̂̋͜ ̸̠̬̪̻͖̠̼̏́̓̆̊͋͑ ̷̗͙̓͂͛̄̽̂͠ ̶̮͇̣̖̩͐͛́̑͝ ̵̛͍̱̗̃̎̑̕ ̵̠̩̰̅̑̄̏̊ ̴̻͇̜͈͉̓́̄ ̶̨͍̖͈̖̲̼̎ ̷̩̬̟͍̯̆̄ ̸͓̣̠̥̲̈́̀̿ ̴͓̰̤̈̏̑̄͒̐͛ ̸̘̲̘̼̰̜̱̐̈́͗̆̉͠ ̷̜̒̿͒̀ ̶̫̗͋̈́̆͒̕ ̸̙͚̳̣̮̈́̅̐͜ ̵͍̻̼̺̤͂̈́ ̷͚̫̞̬̻̤͝ ̴̬̙͓̊ͅ ̵̧͍̫̜̱̂̈́̐̏ͅ ̶̢̫̫͓̈́͒͑͗̽̽͒ ̴̛̰̱̞͆̀͛̋̓͝ ̵̹̗̓͋͊͊̂͌̃.


I̶f̷ ̷t̴h̸i̸s̴ ̷i̵s̶ ̴r̴e̴a̵l̶ ̶j̴u̴s̷t̵ ̷
           𝓜⃥̸𝓐⃥̸𝓚⃥̸𝓔⃥̸ 𝓜⃥̸𝓔⃥̸ 𝓓⃥̸𝓘⃥̸𝓢⃥̸𝓐⃥̸𝓟⃥̸𝓟⃥̸𝓔⃥̸𝓐⃥̸𝓡⃥̸

ᶦᶠ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶠᵃⁿᵗᵃˢʸ

ᶦᶠ ⁿᵒᵗ ʲᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐ

₮ⱧɆ₦ ł ₵₳₦ ₮ØⱠɆⱤ₳₮Ɇ ₳ ₥Ɇ₥ØⱤɎ.

          ᵇᵘᵗ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ.

                          ̶   ̶ ̶𝑵̶𝒐̶.̶

                   𝓝⃥̸𝓞⃥̸𝓣⃥̸.⃥̸

Reality.

It seems as though I live my life
Downstage right and closest to the footlights.
I need the warmth of those glowing bulbs
To thaw a sometimes frozen heart.

I’ve learned my lines and know the scenes
But the blocking still confuses me
And I’m not sure which way I turn
To delver my soliloquy.

I know this drama has four acts
But this is intermission
And I’m waiting for the lights to dim
And call the audience back inside
To watch until the final curtain.
     ljm

A quiet moment
I steal it and wrap the stillness around myself
Bury my head in it
Until the sharp, outraged cry of my babe
Indignant at being left alone in his crib
Pulls the covers off
leaves me cold, shivering
Then I’m up
Tripping along
to my day job as Mommy


© 2025 Joan Zaruba. All rights reserved.

I’m sat in the window seat
Cool against my head,
vibrating softly with the hum of the tracks

Outside
snapshots of other people’s lives
A woman brushing crumbs from a table,
a child leaping over a puddle,
Grandmas saying goodbyes
Some sun,
some rain
Some days that feel like nights

The train moves forward,
always forward
No signs,
no names,
just a blur of motion and color.

Passengers shift around me,
luggage tucked under seats,
eyes full of somewhere
Their faces carry a quiet certainty,
as if they all agreed on the destination
before boarding

But I didn’t
I hold a pass stamped Nowhere.
No stop to look forward to
No reason for being here
except that I already am

I can’t get off
The train doesn’t stop for questions

There’s a tightness in my chest
that rises with each tunnel,
each bend,
each hollow station passed
And it’s not the motion that makes me feel sick
it’s the stillness underneath it
This strange dissonance
of moving so fast
yet going nowhere

I thought maybe the journey would reveal something
But the longer I sit,
the more the windows reflect back only myself
faint, flickering,
unmoved

Just headed
Nowhere
that never arrives.

When I was young,
I used to go to
the museum,
where art was
hung high
on walls—
Higher than
The Hanged Man
on The Hanging Tree.

A painting stood
out in one room,
both beautiful
and terrifying…
The Mona Lisa.

Her essence—
Trapped in her
own framed
prison of hell.
Her skin shines
old gold,
yet etched with
cuts and bruises
underneath Death’s
black robe of sorrow.
Her calm smile
hides a cold secret…

Her dark,
red-veined hair
stretched out
like a river,
yet tangled
down like vines.

Her eyes spoke
her tale the most—
restless and fearful.
Reaching out to
feast attention from
both critics and lost
soul’s eyes,
like Medusa.
I could hear
her echoes.
Almost as if
I heard her
ghost speak
the words—
“Help…”

She reminded me
of my mother…