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Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-16 08:00:47 EDT

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A sunset over the ocean with whale bones in the foreground. A poem reads:

At the end of the day
All that is left are reflections
Of the choices you made
To live your life
No one to blame or celebrate
Only the face in the mirror.

At the end of the day
All that is left are memories
Good and bad
Made from the paths you walked
That's your life.
Is there time to walk a new direction?

At the end of the day
All that is left is determination
To make better choices
For the next day starts afresh.
At the end of the day
All that is left is starting tomorrow.

Poem and photo by Robert Emond.

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A poem written on a pink background by "jlynn" aka Wander Words by JL Tooker:

Thought—
for granted
Taken—Mind
never
so bold.
Time’s refuge—
restlessness.
Disquiet
senses—
old surrender—
Think
again
on morrow.

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Red

You went right to red.
You skipped all the steps.
The evening air now falls crisp.
The afternoon sun still warms.
In your rush to get ahead,
You ignored all the norms.

Sometimes the beauty is
the process, not the product.

Simple truth, but a truth, that you forgot.
As you realized, in the evening, your sun was not that hot.

You dove hard, straight to the end,
Right to red,
A simple breeze, from ending you on the ground.
So important, You skipped all the steps,
Except for turning brown.

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Messiah Complex

I always try to save it all,
My halo gold and round.
I thought I could walk on water
And I nearly drowned.
I have to try and save it all,
A type of delusion, all the trying.
Hoping to catch angels as they fall,
God is probably sighing.
Nominated by no one
But an inflated sense of me.
The bush isn't the only thing
That's burning here I see.
I waited three days, and summoned,
The will and strength to rise,
Managed to move the rock
With bruises on my thighs.
White knuckle hands grasp and shake,
I can't seem to get them open,
Too afraid to let go, sick with all the hoping.
Make it worth something.
Look at me, I am here.
I am good, I am something, look.
Adept at a morality taken from a book.
Written by who? Written why and when?
Just give me a minute...
I'll catch my breath... then
I'll try again.

The dead, he murmured,
are but scattered versions of the quick.
To live is to be loved or
hated, thought of, mused
upon, et cætera; the overwhelming mass of
self, though, draws
those particles
of being to the centre, to an egoistic
point.
What
we call life is nothing but the crushing
of what really counts,
the black hole of the “I” lets little
loose beyond its
drear event horizon.
Death
dissipates
that central lump, allows the thoughts
of others to spread out throughout
the world.

He paused, and drank,
and looked into my eyes,
and put his hand upon my thigh,
and sighed, and I
released (albeit temporarily)
the gravitationally captured
thoughts of him in others’ minds —
still dull, but
free.

published in Eyot Magazine 2, 2016

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The sun shines through a forest canopy. In the foreground a moss covered tree stump and a dirt path. A poem reads:

reaching for heaven
insightful dreams of wisdom
grounded on the Earth
humans gain insight from trees
live in peace and harmony

Poem and photo by Robert Emond.

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