Poem | |
The sky resembles the robin's eggshells
scattered across the ground,
a blue so seemingly infinite yet fragile,
cracks running between understanding and madness
complementing each other
as divine truths in their own right
to conquer my mind,
to unhinge the doors,
making it unnecessary to pick rusted locks
letting thoughts fly free,
releasing love out into the horizon.
If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations,
it will surely die,
but even so,
I was willing to strangle it by holding on too tightly.
Until I saw the sky and eggshells today
Peppered clouds reflected on the water,
paralleling speckles on the eggshells,
remind me of the freckles on your face.
We need to be wide-open-free,
we need to fly,
without focusing too hard on shells of yesterdays.
We need to unclench our fists,
unclench our tongues,
explore the vast blue peppered sky
on wings of letting go....
so that we can once again feel with purity,
so that we can hold each other ever closer.
Poem | |
Daddy, why did you go away,
Don't you know I wanted you to stay!
Daddy, when you left mom,
Don't you know you left me too.
Now all I do is cry and cry
--- I want to die!
Daddy, mommy say's it's better this way,
What does she know!
There's not enough band-aids to cover up the blues
Mom's kisses can't heal this kind of pain.
Daddy, I look around
No one stands in your garage
Daddy, You took every tool
Except the hammer and sitting stool
Daddy, I still miss you
--- I love you.
Dear Daddy, I'm all grown up now
Haven't seen you since I was 10
Daddy, I sit on your favorite chair,
No longer do I miss the way you caressed my hair.
Daddy, I'm taking the old hammer and this BRAND NEW saw,
It's time to patch all the holes mom punched in the wall
*The day you walked out on us*
Daddy, don't worry about the times I tripped and fell
Mom, found someone to fix the loose boards,
Got tired of scraping my knees
Daddy, I finally realized I'm okay,
I agree with mom, it's better this way.
Poem | |
I am the wind
You cannot see me but you can feel me
breezing gently through your hair
brushing lightly across your cheek
whistling softly 'neath your ear
I am the wind ,whirling,howling,roaring
blowing fiercely 'gainst the desert sand
which sifts in the hourglass of your soul
I will not fail you,nor leave your side
till you smell fresh rain again
and soak under cascading waterfalls
I am the wind,extinguishing wild fire
which burns and scars the lifeline of your palm
I am the sweetened fragrance of each meadow
where you lay, beneath a half sun
I am the wind breathing my warmth
where your numb fingertips
gather forget-me-not petals
that fall ever so slow
with every whisper of my flutish tapping sound
I am the wind,I will carry you to places, far
I'd tickle your lips with fluttering feathers
of silent doves soaring above your past
I'd strip your thought bare till I touch your heart
I am the wind wafting by your pillowcase
I play within your dreams
with each seductive move
Capturing each hour of a star
I linger in the deepest of the dark
Your night becomes my night
and our moons would never part
I am the wind.
Poem | |
There are so many different kinds of poo,
it's amazing to see what passes through.
is something everyone has to do.
Yes. It's true!
I do too!
Look at this poo all covered in nuts.
It stinks far worse than rotten fish guts.
Oh me! Oh my!
Oh me! Oh my!
It stinks so bad,
it caused that fly to die.
So some poo is quite smelly.
Some poo looks like jelly.
Some poo is very icky,
especially when it comes out sticky.
Some poo smells high.
Some poo smells low.
Some poo slides out fast,
and some poo comes out slow.
What kind of poo is your favourite to do?
Maybe an in-between sort of doo-doo?
The smelliest poo is made by the razor-backed Zonkzifferack.
Boy, when the razor-backed Zonkzifferack decides to drop a mighty stack....
....stand back! Yes. Please stand back!
There is nothing worse than the poo attack of a razor-backed Zonkzifferack.
Then there are the infamous Knack-a-croodle Crows.
Their poo smells like that of a Summer rose.
Not at all unpleasant to the nose.
Nothing wrong with those Knack-a-croodle Crows.
Look! Over here.
That poo is making a quick dash.
Oh! What a huge splash!
Now look at the poo over there.
It's all covered in hair.
There's also poo that floats like a boat,
or sinks very quickly in the drink.
Poo shaped liked cats,
poo shaped liked rats,
poo marching along wearing fat hats!
the next time there arrives a choo-choo,
making poo is something everyone has to do.
Nothing to be ashamed of through and through.
Whether it's new
whether it's blue
or possibly a bit old
even covered in mold....
....everyone has to make poo.
Even Ms. Brown, the teacher,
and Mr. Collins, the Preacher.
Your Mommy makes poo.
Your Granny makes poo.
I do too!
Yes I do.
*R.I.P. Dr. Seuss
Written: January 28th, 2012
Poem | |
(This is a specific type of Aster with full name Aster 'Blue Autumn')
Aster 'Blue Autumn,'
The shining sky of dusk
is drenched in splendor.
Tremulously, I watch shadows that arrive
all to soon-to purloin sun's last rays.
Aster 'Blue Autumn,'
how you thrive
in fields amidst a throng of goldenrod!
And always you forego
the chill of nights that come
to steal away the last of Summer's days.
Aster 'Bue Autumn,'
and you're re-birthed
from star dust that she cries-
to bloom beneath blue skies until the fatal time
when breath is snatched . . . Pensively I wait.
For Tracie ~*~ Indigo Dreamweaver's
~ Flowers or Stones ~ Poetry Contest
Poem | |
Down where I sleep,
You hold me, embrace my every way
The Marks up on my skin
You caress, taking away from the ugliness
Watching the simple breath, when I breathe
Breaking the ice, soothing my inner peace
A sweet spray across the paleness in my limbs
Holding the warmth, I've been loved throughout my life.
From picking up sticks to the walking stick
My loving dear I know you will always be there
A few wheel chairs, when broken bones mend
You know my every cure*
Walk with me across the hall
Through the oldness, and the boldness of every color in the sky
Thank you for taking me as I am
A light twinkle' every time I feel the colors of the rainbow drip
Now a newborn takes his form
In you I find the strength to stretch my arms and reach for every star
When happy moments fail,
I embraced the colors I found in you
I make out every tree, and wonder why and how?
I close my eyes to imagine the fun of chasing fireflies
Tonight I'm keeping my prayers simple, cute, and innocent
I will count sheep and search for sweet lullaby dreams
Smiling like a 3 year old this very moment,
You think I'm having "Baby Blues."
My loving dear, thanks for having patience,
Painting my way down a toddlers sky
Every time "P M S" hits
Poem | |
I remember as a young boy, going out to play, I would sometimes see old Mr. Kimball, sitting on the steps of his porch, often reading the paper. World War II was in full swing so the newspapers and radios were avidly sought out for the latest news. Mr. Kimball was a fireman, and probably not even that old, but he seemed that way to me.
Sometimes, he would invite me to sit with him and we would talk about everything and nothing. I loved spending time with him because, he was the only grown up I knew that took the time to entertain the mind of a young boy.
In his front window hung a small flag. It had a red border surrounding a white field, upon which there were two blue stars. I was always curious about it, so I asked him what it was. He said “It's a Sons in Service flag. One star for each son serving. You remember my boys don't you?” I did of course. Chuck, the oldest, used to tease me, calling me a sissy to get a reaction. Bobby was a couple of years younger, and the bike I was riding once had been his.
Mr. Kimball went on to explain how Chuck was now in the Army and fighting in France. Bobby was in the Navy, aboard a ship somewhere in the Pacific. He didn't say it, but I'm sure he was worried about both, communications being what they were back then.
One day, when I was walking over to see him, I noticed that the flag had changed. It now carried one blue star, but the other one was gold. With the innocence that comes of being a child, I asked what the gold star meant. He quietly said “It means Chuck is coming home”, and without further comment, he turned and went in the house.
A couple of days later, I saw a hearse pull up to the Kimballs house, and four men carry a flag draped box up the porch steps. That is the moment the meaning of war came to a small boy. I knew Chuck was home.
Poem | |
“The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness therein, the world and they that dwell therein”
A Psalm of David…
Solitary, I stand upon these ever changing shores
Where sun, sea, earth and winds abide
Where time and tide flow forevermore
In a timeless waltz, as one, they reside
Within this glorious setting sits a conspicuous ruin
A beautiful church built with mortar and stone
Stones carved and laid by hands, gifted and willing
And now vast blue skie replace the old wooden dome
B'neath sits an altar graced by Morning Glory vines
Ascending, yet, to the sun and matching blue skies
While fragile walls hugged by bougainvillea climbs
Well dressed in their shocking pink and white styles
And though silence prevails, I hear a choir of nature sing
Melodious chants echoing within these broken walls
Where the elements congregate and worship in sync...
Transfixed; I kneel in worship and my soul gives its all!
By: Annalise Brigham
For: “The Church by the Ocean” Contest”
Poem | |
Winds may howl,
Wild animals growl,
The forest grows cold,
For I am lonesome and old
As the sun peaks through the clouds,
I hear your soft, young voice so loud!
And though you speak dead man's lines,
You speak them with majesty divine
As I am wrapped in my woe,
I only want you to know...
...that roses die black and violets lose blue,
But I will never die
And you know I love you!
Poem | |
It is a sun splashed day; the air is silent with the sound of waves
from an ocean moving to the rhythm of crying gulls.
The sand underneath my feet is warm and soothing.
The crashing waters from a wind sculpted waterfall swims
into the arms of its mother sea.
It is a private beach at a spot in the world
were the Caribbean Sea and The Atlantic Ocean hug.
It is a strange sensation of hot then cold, that tease the senses.
The young woman with me is my lover of four years.
The golden rays of light from the bright morning star
lives in the flow of her platinum blond hair.
In her eyes I can see the bright clear blue ocean, warm,
but with a piercing love glare that sends shivers up my spine.
We are young, in love and safe
inside a perfect glossy postcard background.
Her red lips and light drenched skin glows
with the beauty of this perfect Jamaican day.
Without a thought I grab the back of her head,
jerking my lover's whole body towards me
locking her in the strength of my grasp
inviting her to quench my desire.
I bite her lips before engaging in a deep passionate kiss
and remove a barely there bikini from her statuesque figure.
She embraces me as I lift her in my arms
naked for all the Gods to observe.
I set her down under the refreshing flow of the rushing waterfall.
She attempts to pull at me, but I deny her.
I hold back both her arms and use my mouth
to suckle her all the time absorbing the beating waters
that kneads my flesh, like so much dough.
Suddenly I set my angel free. She pounces on me,
like a lioness in heat famished for the taste of flesh.
The world disappears and I find myself willingly trapped in a void.
Nature's voice conducts an orchestra of emotion.
We writhe in the ecstasy of touch.
With the strokes of a divinity fingers paint a portrait of rapture.
We dance now to the precise notes
of an escape into the arms of serenity.
In one fluid movement, our bodies become one.
There is no end to the divine flavors we share.
Cooling waters flame our sins.
We explode like a building
imploding gracefully to the roar of infinite sound.
Until eventually we pass out naked
locked in each others arms.
We find ourselves lying on the warmth
of the fine white sand beach when we awaken,
tattooed in the telling shades of a Jamaican suntan.