There she stands
Centre stage for all to see
Tall and slender
Precariously she balances.
I reach out for her
Draw her to me
My hand skims her body
Slowly reaching her skirt.
Playful fingers find hidden areas
Delighted her legs spring forth
Displaying the very beauty
Of her delicately adorned skirt.
Gaily she dances around
Dizzily twisting and turning
In the brightness of day shading
She gently tends to my needs.
Personal ballerina takes to toes leaping
Merrily bobbing up and down
As emotional to her performance
Clouds cry a thousand tears for her.
Reaching our destination
Slightly shaken, she leans
Watches me quietly drips
Against the wall.
Reminiscent of the day's fulfillment
We acknowledge one another silently
Restful knowing we shall be
One once more.
I am the spirit of satin stardust
and the antiquities of golden memories alive
I call to you from the rising warmth of the sun
and greet you in the misty morning light
I am the steady and rolling drum beat
echoing from the jagged heights above
I am the mysterious curves of the raging waters'
and the freedom birds of love
I rise above the white summer clouds
in lilting songs of grace
and roam with the western tail-winds
to take you home again
I am a Spirit of our gracious Lord God Almighty
of love hope and faith
I have come to tell
Dedicated To P.D.
Not many see,
What it is to be free.
What it is to amount,
To make every day count.
Everything has a story,
Though the place your at you say is boring.
There's more behind this rundown town.
From the highest mountian,
To the streets unfound.
Where children once played,
And by their side their parents stayed.
Where the sky may not shine as bright,
But to every darkness there's light.
Where the creature's of the world find home,
While your complaining that the air's too cold.
When you're strong, it shows,
Planing each day as it goes.
Smiling and helping whoever you can,
Instead of moping about how much you hate this land.
You can't change the way the trees sway,
You can't change what's already gone away.
But the beauty of the world can take you in,
Make you see beauty like you should have when your life began.
When you start to appreciate the little things,
Like the crickets chirping,
And the songs birds sing.
You'll find all you needed has been there all along,
Only then you'll see where happiness comes from.
If to see is to believe,
Then there's belief all around.
From the starry night sky,
To the flowers on the ground.
So many find pleasure in all the wrong things,
Humanity has overcome,
Yet still falls apart at the seams.
We're so focused in on money and gold,
Before we know it our life has no meaning,
Our skin becomes cold.
It's never too late,
And you're never too near or far.
To make the best of things,
And be happy where you are.
John Weaver 2000 (Emily has cerebral palsy)
Her room is not the sort of room you’d quite expect to find
For a little girl whose love of life is clear
No toys or games or bats or balls, or fun things of that kind
No bicycle or skateboard will appear
But the little piece of crumpled silver paper
It's very cheerful and bright with pictures everywhere
A pump to feed her through the night and a big adapted chair
Though pretty dolls sit on the shelf and teddies on her bed
She cannot play with them herself so she holds them tight instead
And the little piece of crumpled silver paper
It was Christmas day some years ago with excitement in the air
When we opened her presents and then found
That she couldn’t play with them and it didn’t seem quite fair
That she would always be so cruelly bound
To a life without the toys that all children adore
And then we heard a new sound that meant so much more
A crackle from the little piece of crumpled silver paper
The expensive gifts didn’t matter to this special little girl
Her joy came from quite another caper
As the parcels and the packaging slowly started to unfurl
All she wanted was the silver wrapping paper
You see, she could grasp it tight to make a funny noise instead
And so it fast became a dear friend
And she holds it close beside her even when she goes to bed
And the lesson to be learned is, in the end…
Happiness is not always found in gifts so big and costly
And often simple things can bring the joy you need
Contentment is a state of mind and the choice is yours mostly
To be content with what you’ve got and with every little deed
Or, to always be in want and never satisfied
And so for me the real belief will never taper
That the truth of life is clear and very closely tied
To the little piece of crumpled silver paper.
Lately I've been thinking of the past I don't know why.
Past memories only make me cry.
Sometimes I hold so much inside.
Carefully in my heart they will be forgotten and a place to hide.
So many wounds and unhealed scars.
Damaged and wrecked like a compact car.
I read the bible as a escape from my nightmares.
In my sleep I grit my teeth and pull my hair.
Sometimes I wish these memories would go away.
To the Lord Jesus I pray that they will disappear.
It's been four years of not living in fear.
Sometimes we have to let go the past to move forward.
That's not being weak or a coward.
That is life we either keep living or give up.
So keep your head up.
By John Weaver
Whenever I dream of my little girl she runs and shouts and plays
Like all the other children in all their boisterous ways
I see her skip, I see her trip; I hear her laugh and cry
Then when she’s had her fun, home she’ll run and into my arms she’ll fly
With a great big hug and a teasing tug, she’ll cuddle me close and say
‘Daddy I love you heaps and heaps’ in her cheeky little way.
Whenever I dream of my little girl, she’s healthy, fit and well
With eyes alight and a smile so bright it’s really hard to tell
That my dream is a wish and a longing, a hope for something new
For her life to be one that is normal and able-bodied too.
But then I awake and I have to forsake my dream for what is true
That she cannot walk and she cannot talk like the other children do
That she cannot shout and skip about and cuddle me close and say
The things she desperately wants to, yet in her own special way…
Instead she talks to me with her eyes and reassures me with her smile
That all is well and I can tell that she’s happy all the while
Knowing that one day in some magical way, we’ll play together and scheme
And sing and shout and skip about…in an everlasting dream.
Beautiful ones are dying/
Directors on silent the film is sponsored by reality/
Voiceovers turn into scandals not propensity /
Actors with no clue they get glued in life's show their future is screwed/
Born raged their actions are so real/
Kill or be killed quest between scenes/
Poverty is more than the defining moment screams/
Hunger bleeding dreams with no makeup pencils/
A wakeup call before the final cut/
A turning point of a lifetime plot/
It’s a warm-up elevating hopes before credits/
Death too expensive/
No rehearsals nor sequels/
Dark clouded cameras carry life insurances/
Raining scenes on corruption’s free way and streets/
The cancer eating stunning extras/
Avalon cemetery the only Stadium Lavatory flushing off written off characters/
Beautiful ones are dying/
Her voice reminds me of laughter barely suppressed
An energetic spirit tugging constantly at the rope
A caterpillar turning to butterfly at any moment
Her voice sounds like lifegiving fruit
Not serious, self-important fruit like geometrically precise pineapples
Or pompous, overfed watermelons
Too heavy to lift
Not business fruit like apples, on duty keeping doctors away
Or bananas waiting to do their slippery work under feet
Or blackberries, whose careers lie in jam
But mischievous fruit like grapes or cherries
Which roll away like playful children when you’re not looking
Or fallen raisins on the carpet pretending to be part of the pattern
Fun-loving fruit like mandarin oranges around the Christmas tree
Basking under the Christmas lights, enjoying the glitter
Of tinsel and the smell of pine needles
Small fruits which enjoy life,
Laughing as they jostle each other in their bag,
And which could easily become bubbly wine if tempted.
Her ripened voice -
The spontaneous fruit of a lifetime
Of growth and maturing, and regeneration :
Aliment for my soul’s ailment.
Sweet silence of a Sunday morn,
The world of weekday chaos shorn,
Not even the honking of a horn
As traffic idled,
Held back by the arms of the Law,
Impelled to wait, with tempers raw,
Stewing in the sun's hot maw,
And as I stood outside a shop,
Wondering why the world had stopped,
Out of the stillness came a "flop",
A sound so faint.
Repeated with a steady beat,
Approaching from the small side street,
Till into view, with flapping feet -
A sight so quaint -
Emerged a plodding mother duck,
Welded to her scrambling pack,
Never once e'en glancing back
To take a tally!
(Which baby duck would ever fail
To follow close on mother's tail
When upon the pilgrim trail,
Or dare to dally?)
A Moses on full purpose bent,
No glance to right or left she lent
As straight across the road she went,
To lead her brood
Down into the flowing stream,
Where ducks may swim and ducks may dream,
Safe from the ire and hissing steam
Of traffic queued.
And did she realize her luck
On reaching the promised land, Ma Duck?
That out of danger she'd been plucked,
By humans saved?
For some observant soul in sight
Had soon foreseen approaching plight
And brought the police upon the site
To part the waves!
UNDER THIS RED UMBRELLA
The rain did not stop us romantically.
Our love was to be enjoyed.
Life span was our imagery.
We are young adults in love.
We walked in an embrace.
We talked about family and friends.
We were unity of togetherness in this scene.
I looked away shortly and saw others doing the same.
That momentary endeavor drew his attention as well.
He leaned forward with protection so that I would not get wet.
This red umbrella glisten from the night lights as we stroll through the park.
The tree leaves were wet; this was autumn.
Good spirits were in optimistic to longevity.
The red umbrella reflects the leaves of the trees as it does my man’s adoration of me.
Under this red umbrella are images of love!
User Name: Verlena S. Walker –
Nom De Plume: Oblivion Dark Sunshine
Sponsor: Leonora Galinta
Personification of Lovers done for Poem with a theme of "Umbrella" Free Poetry Contest
Entry Date: March 22, 2014