Dragging his feet with exhaustion,
On the unending path of time,
The wise old year, the gates of
His face glowing
His heart pounding for joy
His soul in rapture
In a few moments, able will he be,
The heavy load of humanity’s predicaments
The eager shoulders, of the ignorant New Year,
To, finally, lay!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
29 DECEMBER 2014
HAPPY NEW YEAR to everyone!
With shining eyes, the prettiest
advances leading all the rest.
She skips with glee beneath blue skies,
the prettiest with shining eyes.
The second, with a warming smile,
comes dressed in lace, and all the while
she lithely romps beneath the sun
with warming smile, the second one.
And woebegone, the daughter third,
walks, scowling, speaking not a word.
She trudges slowly on and on -
the daughter third and woebegone.
Now comes along a steadfast son
whose sauntering seems never done.
He perseveres though winds be strong.
A steadfast son now comes along.
The second boy along the trail
has charity, which does not fail.
He renders aid and brings sweet joy
along the trail, the second boy.
Another son, now onward pressed,
endures although fatigued and stressed.
He's labored much and cannot run,
now onward pressed, another son.
At course's end, a daughter fair
who rests - lets down her golden hair.
Most cheerful, tender, gracious friend,
the daughter at the course's end.
(Please click on "About Poem" to see the
fortune-telling nursery rhyme this is based on.)
For Francine Roberts'
children in rhyme Poetry Contest
Come let me rock you gently
and as we softly sway
I'll share with you a story
and rock your cares away.
In the years that I have known
there has been much I've seen
the big "to do's" the nothing days
and all those in between.
To all I've offered comfort
and a quiet place to rest
I've rocked my share of little ones
(oh, how I love them best!).
A very tender memory
of all those that I hold
is one of love and caring
that now is growing old.
A Grandma and a little girl
placed firmly on her knee
would for hours sit and play
and we would rock so free!
The laughter in their voices
(to which I'd add a creak!)
would fill my day with pleasure
and with pure joy I'd squeak!
Oh how I loved the songs they sang
and the games they played
and all the Bible stories told
when we were all so staid.
How glad I was to share it all
we were a happy set
this is my sweetest memory
(the best one I've had yet!).
Now as our time is winding down
(it's nearly at an end!)
I bid you please come back and sit
when you have time to spend.
Together we will gently sway
and stories will unfold
and I will rock your cares away
as each new one is told.
Inspired by Deborah Guzzis' The Chairs Tale contest
The night approaches me again and you're not here still with me
And here under my breath I call your name and I watch your loving face
And there among the dark shadows you'll come back again the same
I hear your haunting tune and I know that you'll be waitin' this time for me.
Release me from all this pain I'm sufferin "Come to me"and just take my hand
Hold me in your arms so tight and please never ever let me again go
Together we'll dream of that other time and fly away to that magical time band
There is no other place like this in heaven or earth where our love can only but glow.
Join me here tonight,hear my voice into the night and just be mine for all time
Come to me right now and give me all your love before the night is carried away
Let me kiss your lips,caress and love you all night til we both see a brand-new day
Disperse all the dark shadows in which I exist,come to me and be mine for all times.
Dorian Petersen Potter
July 18, 2010
This poem amongt many others that I'd written in my life,had been inspired by
my very favorite and most beloved vampire character of all time,
"Barnabas Collins" from the most popular daytime soap opera series ever
produced on T.V. in my opinion, "Dark Shadows." This whole DVD collection is most
And Jonathan Frid is so awesome!
I asked what’s worse than death,
You say people that help you survive.
You say: “ I don’t feel anything anymore.”
You make every one out to be your enemy,
But your enemy itself is you!
You say that none of us care,
When it’s you that don’t care.
You say that none of us love you,
When it’s you that doesn’t love yourself.
You say you have a very empty feeling,
When you are the only one that can fill it.
You say we broke you down emotionally,
When it was you, yourself who did it,
By not talking about the things that bothered you.
You say: “ I can’t go on.”
When you know you can, with help, make it.
You feel sorry for yourself,
When you should feel sorry for those who love you.
You only think of yourself and you don’t
See the suffer in the eyes of other.
To me she died a few days ago.
To me you are a total stranger.
My heart is struck with sorrow
For the monster she become destroyed
Everything good that’s left.
To me you are a nobody,
Because she would never have done
What sorrow you did.
To me you don’t exist,
For she would never destroy
What’s good in life.
If only she could be here,
She would clean up the destruction
If she was here
She would have thought of us and never
Cause so much sorrow.
You know time choose you,
You can not choose time.
For time and place and how
Is special itself.
Why put yourself through so much,
Pain, when it is not your time to go.
Where is home: heaven, earth or hell,
How would you know?
You sound and act so pathetic,
She would never have done that.
Why should I feel sorry for you.
It is only you, you care about.
I’ll rather weep for the person you hide
Just to become a self-conscious monster
When it’s only you that can stop.
I'm still waiting
How much time has elapsed
Think I'll read
While I'm waiting
I just read a chapter
I do believe my call is being answered
No, a voice on a machine echoes
"Your call will be taken in the order in which it was received"
What number caller was I
Probably the 1000th caller
I'll touch up my manicure
While I'm waiting
I'm still waiting
I smudged my polish on one nail
Wonder If I have time to fix it
Before they break their necks to take my call
They must be averaging one call every ten minutes
I'll continue reading
Another chapter done
I'm still waiting
He remembers when his many bolts
weren't ringed in rust,
and his seams weren't blackened
with years of grime and dust.
The post upon which he sat
was gray and weathered now,
and had become just slightly
west of plumb somehow.
The screw that held his little flag
had long ago come loose,
chipped and faded, no longer red,
it was of little use.
The driveway that he guarded
was dirt and deeply sloped,
and halfway down it gently curved
around a massive oak.
Now some might think that he'd be bored,
stuck there night and day,
but he found entertainment
in the things that came his way.
He pondered long and hard on things
before making up his mind,
there was no hurry, he reasoned,
when all you have is time.
He carefully watched a nest of ants
both day and night for weeks,
before he reached the conclusion
that ants must never sleep.
He marveled at the seasons
and loved both sun and snow,
but sometimes he felt beaten down
when the wind-whipped rain would blow.
He loved the feel of bird feet
when they used him as a perch,
and when a truck would rumble by
he'd feel his spirit lurch.
He delighted in the field mice,
and wept with the mourning doves,
was suspicious of the furry raccoons,
with their masks and leather gloves.
Though days and months and years went by,
and he was oft ignored,
his life of perfect stillness
was itself a rich reward.
So as we hurtle past him,
with our tires spitting rocks,
perhaps we could learn something
from our stoic old mailbox.
As I sit in my window sill.
Relaxed no thrill.
Time goes by, but it seems the world stands still.
I sit and gaze .
By the beauty that sits in front of me.
The stars winks at me, twinkles and dance.
So magnificant I saw in watch in a trance.
The love I felt between us must be true romance.
But suddenly it fades.
It fades so quickly and with little warning.
Because within a few moments it will soon be morning.
So sadly it leaves, but leaves with a kiss of delight.
The wind whispers its goodbyes and promise to return tomorrow night.
The unwritten lyrics swarm in my head like a hornets nest, the studio is silent. The microphone taunts me in it's little square box, but it waits for a time when we can talk in private.
I hear the instrumental get louder from the twist of a knob. The song wrote its self as my head starts to bob. I cram into the booth and close the door with confidence. That I will come out feeling new and get praised with compliments.
I get loud with excitement and shake hands with my buddies. Hope that I can continue this hobby, but we see no money.
I made music for years not thinking what my future entailed. All my friends will understand when its time to set sail.
We have low quality equipment and no food for our stomachs. We grow into men and instead of friends, we are now distant cousins.
Yamaha impressed me the first time I laid eyes on her glistening blond maple wood, her stylish body details, her long fretted mother-of-pearl inlay; lobed with golden keys. Her voice called to me the first time I held her in my arms. I strummed her six strings slowly in the key of G, then moved softly to D and C. All the while, I searched earnestly for her purity in sound quality and style. She was not the most beautiful in the showroom. But oh yes! She did flatter me with her musical presence. She was beautiful to me! I knew from that moment on she would be mine for eternity.
Within the hour, I took her home to meet the family. She was shy on the journey, not making a sound; perhaps due to this being her first automobile ride or simply wanting to see a world she was now a part of. Yamaha was cased in alligator leather, a brown dressing which was stylish for the day. We were both nervous as we arrived and got out of the car. My strong caressing grip on her handle assured her she wouldn’t fall and it would be alright. She knew it would be alright as I smiled at her.
I opened the door, allowing her to enter first. When in the living room, I called to everyone to come meet the newest member of the family. Dad was taken by her simple yet elegant beauty and style. Mom touched her first and she was most pleased. At that moment I realized the importance of first impressions as Mom marveled at how pretty she was. I sat down in the best chair in the living room while Mom listed to Yamaha talk and I sang a popular country love song. I was pleased with the family acquaintance to Yamaha. It was evident she had become a part of the family.
The first few weeks, I couldn’t keep Yamaha out of my arms. I longed to be with her every minute of the day. In my eye, she made me smile by just gazing upon her. I fumbled with her in those beginning days. She ignored my elementary attempts at refinery and permitted me the time to catch up to her mastery rather than bow down to my level. Like any two lovers, both must reach to the need of the other. Only then is love truly in harmony.
Today, Yamaha is not the young glistening blond I held in my arms some thirty years removed. Her wood has been scared by my love to play her. She has received countless face lifts which cover her tainted mother-of-pearl. Her brown leather case dress stands in need of a seamstress care. But as with all things having been learned through love, we now make beautiful music together. She is my treasure, a light into my soul's well. She amplifies my inner being. As I perform, she is glorified. We have grown old together,and gotten better in time. I still hold her in my arms day by day as this lover has risen to her grace and expectations. She is my treasure for a life time.
Familiar avenue, follies in the midst abandoning themselves to the fresh-air moon,
lured by old hallway allies into the bedroom bay, where the garden will still be, with a
The laundry turns,
the night dries.
They harass and blame those who follow far behind, await a signal from inside to
let 'em starve, ignore as they toe past the prow of the porch, past the tattered
drapes, tilting their tails;
old memory prints on window panes, that, at first glance, still have some taste
evaporate from a distance.
The prowlers aren't afraid to be strays, and they empty into the streets with
ashtrays, living their own way, solely opportunistic,
they usually pay for it in the end, if they ever get a glimpse.
And inside was a lifetime ago, as was her childhood, still stirring outside, roadside
across Fifth Street, underneath anything, to fall slowly, and awake sleepless,
remembering sounds of talking news.
* * * * *
At first light any morning, we blew smoke in the corners, a breath across the
covered picture frames wrapped in winter quilts of old coats that filled the front room,
memory replaced with swamped cardboard and wet newspapers
from the guest bedroom, and a mattress of molded mothballs.
Those last few nights, her friends came to visit but they hand’t returned;
the well-wisher and rubber neck gave more than some passerby;
left and chose not to write, ditched fifty miles east, right at the bend, on the back
fork of a highway river without a number.
© 2013 Wesley T Cutlip
Tomorrow seems so far away
Today refuses to stay
Tomorrow feels gay
Today lingers in gray
Tomorrow has all the games to play
Today keeps going astray
Tomorrow is an innocent day
Today is tainted by today and past days
Tomorrow never stops dreaming of stars
Today is covered in scars
Tomorrow has new hope to offer
Today can't get anything in order
Tomorrow's melody is softer
Today's roughness needs a softener
Tomorrow seems so far away
Today is tomorrow's stairway, a promising essay
Dogs, have they names,
Wade through the lake’s water so shallow,
A woman & a man hands entwined like a gallow.
Wade did she,
Wade did he.
Above their necks the furious waters rose,
Trod they together steps softly with no morose,
Spellbound they moved without a care,
Deeper and deeper where no one would dare.
Trod they further unto the middle they reached,
Realized she now an early vow she had breached,
No further she could wade,
But bitter memories afar refrained they to fade.
Drifting by now so weak was she,
So clasped them eyelids so all she could see was he,
A time came on when a boat roared by,
A wave it created ,it washed her eyes.
The heady din grown a was peaking,
Alas! Her dream was at an end that she was seeking.
The fingered band, beacon it began,
A time had come her life to regain.
Realized, she that moments spent in love,
Will fly away now like the dove.
Struck her like a bolt to her love away,
Will he take me home today?
Guessed she by now that the time was over for her space,
And on the pathway her love left behind in a cold place.
A now thinks she that dwells in another dimension,
Poor man left aghast to brood and fate too cruel to mention.
Ghastly her act ,in all this land had never been,
People shun now the disheartened lover whenever he be rarely seen.
Stares does he strangely at the door,
For he believes that the path will bring her once more…
Was it enough or was it too much?
Sometimes too fast but always too slow!
God knows that I come with these seeds that grow.
Inside and out I absorb every single touch,
But why should I?
Why should I be the only one that knows?
Stepping through time and sliding back so smooth so I go!
I say I can qualify!
Where was I and why was I there?
Sometimes too obvious but always with doubt!
God knows that I come riding in on a prayer.
I absorb every single touch inside and out,
But why should I?
Why should I be the only one that cares?
Climbing the highest mountains and sliding down so steep but on a dare!
I say I can magnify!
What did I say and what did I do?
Sometimes too quite but always too loud!
God knows that I come with a gleam that shines so proud.
Inside and out I absorb every single touch by you.
But why should I?
Why should I be the only one in the crowd?
Walking on water and walking backwards but at least I know how.
I say I can intensify!
Do I want to or do you need me to?
Sometimes I wonder and sometimes I simply don’t care.
God knows that I come standing on a higher sky of blue.
I absorb every single touch by you inside and out with this glare.
But why should I?
Why should I be the only one with this view?
Up in the clouds and aimless but always led by you!
I say, “I SANCTIFY”!
®Registered: 1997 Ann Rich
Since the beginning it has been here.........
When we get up,weather its at the crack of dawn or before the roster crows its ahead of us.
We look to see it but it somehow evades our view.
Mere predictions are captured momentarally on precision pieces,which too are subject to the
bekoning of its un-obtainable master.
Photographs gives us the imagery of good-times,happy
occassions,celebrations,parties,annaveraries.....the first steps,the first dance,the first
date,the first ride or a loved one long gone but not forgotten. But canyou see him there
lurking in the shadows,waving behind a sibilings head or pearched on Grand-dad's aged laps
as he rocks back and forth ever so gently in his soft arm-chair.
Can you see him when the streaks of grey come out from hiding, or the arms shake;when
the knees buckle and sway form walking with added load.
Is he there when chil-hood games ceases;texbooks replaces scantly cladded dolls,tea
cups,ballerina shoes,ribbons,tricycles,action figures,big red fire trucks,,videogames and back-
yard swings. When facial geastures are no longer cute or precious but rather premeditated
to impel demands.
No!.....,you cannot see him but he is there watching,waitngfor the precise moment to strike
like a poisonous adder coiled up in a deep,dark hole.
Can you charm him,........no! presuede or bribe him,..........no! Can you reason wih him like
mortals,chronologically listing to him all the things you have accomplished in this life in order
to win his frienship........no!
All we can do is hope that he forgives and approves of our previous actions.
The rain falls silently
Against the blackness of the cottage window pane
The raindrops swirl in the air, being lifted and pulled
By the unknown forces of the breezy wind
The face in the window spends its time looking in
On other peoples lives
Looking out into the rain
The face in the window
Is thought of as a haunting of someone’s past
Never thought of as a guard
And never thought of as rational
Its snowy, white eyes
Look into the personalities
Of little girls playing with dolls
In the 1980’s of The Cottage
Of Men and Woman loving and hating
In later times
The face in the window
Always wonders why they run away
After spending only a night or a day
In its precious little cottage
In its strange little forest
In its strange little world
All my life is
is a story.
And I get to tell it.
What more grace could one be blessed with?
Days when life doesn't suck feel different than days when it does (do do do do-di-do do)... dontcha know?
The phrase "Music to my ears" has been injected toward the
wrong part of my body, and most unpleasantly personified.
There is a record player that I let skip and scratch on purpose, hearing
colorful sound of life back when truth kept us both inside the lines.
I thought order was helping me draw closer to you, while you began on the next
page without me. The needle digs it's way into my ape-shaped forearm.
I'm directed by the guitar string shaped veins
that only play notes in the keys of D# E# A# F# and the sharp sounds pierce
my perception to the point I can hardly hear your voice anymore.
At times, listening to the same old sad song on repeat makes me think
that I am just an old soul getting repeatedly tossed around in God's
big barrel of human paradox. "Lord what was I made for? Surely it wasn't
to repeat the mistakes of my forefathers, because I'm certain I am the
only one you molded with forearms so large, that the record got lost
and forgot how to spin in circles. Music is all about art, and art all about
perception. Perception has nothing to do with your eyesight, and
you use your ears to envision the painting on a blank canvas before picking
anything else up but sound waves. I drive myself crazy sometimes when
I think that my inspiration is speeding away from me in the
opposite lane, but I didn't even ask for directions. Mostly because I'm a man,
a stubborn one at that, and I always think I know where I'm going.
But this time, I swear I had gotten the map right. So I transformed my open
hands into tight fists to make music burst out of my arms, and the needle went
faster and faster until it broke off, and the high pitched vibration
disintegrated the steel into my own blood. I blame myself for letting this
be the first time to let myself draw some air into my body. A surgery of
scalpels cutting into my physical, and an orchestral symphony of sutures,
threading my life back together again. My blue blood turns crimson as it kisses the air.
Why do we associate the color red with life and vibrancy, when it clearly shows that we are letting our own blood run down our arms? Why do so many women where red lipstick; the kind that sticks to your collar, screaming to your wife that you clearly sinned?
Why do we see sin so clearly; transparent enough for others to correct us before we really we even grasp the desire to fix ourselves? AND WHY IN THE WORLD IS THIS MUSIC PLAYING SO LOUDLY NOW; when my needle broke off into my body a long time ago, and I can hardly hear you anymore.
Good thing my life's song still isn't completely written yet. Let's add a more positive climax to this. One drawn in harmony.
Too young to remember , remembering is all I can do , stories told , may different , not never knowing the truth , a scar for life , not knowing the story behind it all , feeling like a leap and a frog , alone always and forever , standing strong on my own tow feet with no support , about this time I still have tears in my eyes, hurting and weeping from all the pain thats inside, feeling abandoned at a young age, my heart filled with hurt and emotion , like a boat on a ocean , screams and fights , something that I didn't like , it never excites me , it just makes me wanna go far way , running way all the time was getting old and leaving me out in the cold with no place to go , house to house , different rules , different place , different race and different pace. Ive been through hell and back again. 7:00 , lying on the floor , stomach growling , tears falling , left alone , hurting inside , just about to cry , flooding my face , with a salty taste , forgetting my race , forgetting my struggles , going blank with no trace , comes to comfort me , I pull away , with a lot of force , not wanting to be loved by someone who hurts me the most , running away thinking its a better place more hurt occurs , not giving no one a chance , to dance in my present , but finally I give in to something special to me , he who sees the best in me , he who takes me for myself , he who loves me more than ill ever know, he that stunts but deep down he's feelings truly shows , he that I love with all my heart , he that I don't want to leave , he is something like my everything , he is so much like me , he you wouldn't understand , he is my man , I could keep going on and on forever but Ill just end it here this time....
is not the sound:
of a banging gavel,
as the result of a man's decision.
It is found in the laughter of orphans,
or in the quiet tears of a widow's distress.
Justice, does not announce its presence noisily,
nor does it appeal to mere reason or fleeting thought.
It is in the silence of a still moment that it rushes in.
A flood of rescue, a team of unsung heroes, without banners.
In the simple embrace of a father to the orphaned, or mother to the widow.
There it is found in the least likely of places, the free offering of smiles.
An undeserved torrent of kindness that drowns out history's pain,
giving a new and beautiful fragrance to the debris left by injustice.
Tears lose their sting, they become source of life watering souls,
satisfaction is no longer measured by simple shelters, or full
bellies, and clothed bodies; this is not true contentment.
Joy ignited by the embers of love, fueling life.
Purpose, not dependent on fiscal wealth,
a life becomes a raging wildfire,
made visibly tangible,
The dying year old, bent and grey of hair
with a heart that grew weak and a soul that ached
lay in a hospital bed as the minutes ticked away
He knew his time was near as he thought back
at his lovely birth in the cold of a January morning
and how he marvelled at life all around
Young and vibrant he embraced the season
sending cupid out to break February hearts
watching the March snow disappear
Smiling at April rains and May blossoms
kissing the first red rose of June that climbed to the sun
joining in the fireworks and picnics of July
Gazing down on the yellow sunflowers of August
and wishing for summer to last forever
feeling so melancholy when September appeared
Crying with the changing leaves of October
as he knew his reign was slowly dying
he pulled a heavy coat over aging shoulders
In the dampness of a dreary November
he longed for the first snow of December
and the smiles of the children's faces
Now as his time slowly runs down
he hears the lusty cry of the baby 2009
and on the last chime of twelve
he pulls the sheet up over his face
and slips away peacefully
into the book of time past..
I am way up,
I am way down,
I am all of the way around.
I am your Lady Luck!
I am right here,
I am right there,
I completely care,
I hold zero fear.
I am always in,
I am always out,
I am here again,
I am Heaven’s great big shout.
I am mother struck,
With Lady Luck!
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2006
Quality TIME-Quality LIFE
I say time is money
I say time is life
I say time is death
I say time is precious
I say time is meaning
I say time is season
I say time is diamond
I say time is gold
How you use time determines the quality of life
I say how you use time measures your value
I say how you use time measures your impact
I say how you use time measures your life quality
I say how you use time measures your family quality
I say how you use time measure your love quality
I say how you use time measure your originality
I say how you use time measure your services quality
I say how you use time measure your product’s quality
I say how you use time measure your ministry quality
How you use time determines the quality of life
I say lack of purpose leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of vision leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of commitment leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of consistence leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of discipline leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of integrity leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of character leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of Christ leads to lead mismanagement of time
How you use time determines the quality of life
The Timer is time, He controls time, Life is time, He control life
He is the first and the last-beginning and the end
He is eternity meaning time without measure-He is timeless
An Hour to Him is one year – a year to Him is an Hour
If you have the Timer, you will have all the time you need in the world
Doe's things' seem strange
Not what they used to be
This is for the first time
The first time in History
Doe's things' seem slow
While a bestselling economy
Just doe's not grow'
Everything is a shroud
And everyone must know...
It is time
It is time one may say
For a One World Government
To save the day'
But, their is one thing
That I would like to say
And that is that
By the Blood of Jesus
Things' wouldn't be this way
What We really don't need
Is a new government
What we do need
Is a New Covenant'
With ' GOD '
Did anyone think
Of the way
That it should be
To dwell in the House of the Lord
For all Eternity...
To be with the Prince of King'
To be with the Almighty
With-in the Kingdom of ' GOD '
Where He has already prepared
A place for you and me...
They visit me here though they think me dead
They all think me a long time gone
The mausoleum is quiet, with only a dark shadow
Creeping upon its ancient walls, and thats of my own
The heavy door seems to creek all of sudden I think
Outside I hear the sounds of what seems like footsteps
I open that very old secret door which leads to my rest
And with a heavy heart consumed by this fire, I prepare for the kill
But then, outside, there is no one, no one is there
No one out there now to steal from me this time in here
Outside now I catch only the furtive and dark shadows
As I hear the lonesome cry of a howling wolf or hurting bird
I dart quickly another look again to my ancestral and cold coffin
My fateful resting place is one more time again safe
No friend nor foe to release me to free me tonight from my woes
And from all of my black and torturous betraying thoughts
I, Barnabas Collins, I stand here in all this darkness alone
As I close my weary eyes for another moment and rolling time
Then again I hear the wind moaning and hear the wind weeping
The dogs are howling and my wounded heart abates in the wind
They're my only companions in my endless and perpectual sorrow.
Dorian Petersen Potter
July 22, 2010
Time, how lovely of you
to sit here with me;
the lake's edge of any entity.
Water Rock Sand
all over the land.
Time amiss, in bliss;
time for that
and for this.
Time Time Time
Yesterday Today Tomorrow
Time, how lovely
of you to sit.
Yiddy awdy those ticks are here to stay.
Here and there but everywhere astray.
Tick tack I am going to laugh at that.
On the Moon or on the Sun I have sat.
Jump started or kick started my day has begun.
I’m holding a life of lifetimes on the go or run.
Yicky yacky just what is it that I am to do?
Run all over the galaxies in search of you?
Shucks you mucks, I’d do it all over again.
But from time to time you stop when I begin.
It’s a life of life’s bundling into one row.
Yet it is step by step in which it can grow.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2007
"My dear, I think you are shrinking!"
No, you just spend too much time drinking…
"No, I pass the time by thinking!"
Then it's just in your head…
"You are already dead! It's odd talking to a living corpse…"
I breathe your air! I walk your ground! I speak your words!
"Do you drink my sustenance, eat my food, Because, your words taste like repentance!"
I beg to differ!
"I want to see you beg on your knees!"
I want an apology, please!
"I WANT TO SEE YOU BEG ON YOUR KNEES!"
Could a corpse do this?
"You have a weak punch."
COULD A CORPSE DO THIS?
"You have a mediocre kick, just look how you hunch!"
Why don't you fight?
"I don't take candy from children."
That's not funny, it's not! I'm here! I'm in your sight!
"No, you've already left"
"Give it back. You have till the count of ten!"
Dear Soap Bubble,
in an air-light reflection
of the ephemeral beauty
of this world
rumbling inside the anima
of a tiny simple
I shall enjoy thy sight
Shall I live in fear
for you not to burst
Shall I be the wind
to blow tenderly
directing thy path
Thy shelter shall I be
I surrender myself to thee