If life is death, do live Elizabeth,
And read my words although I'm far away
Your soul is light beside my dying breath,
With metaphors I'll die to live today
I love you more than sun-light loves the day
Elizabeth, thou art a Queen of mine,
And Angels touch you with poetic rhyme,
With words you whirl a wind I never knew
You write with beauty and you are divine
So wear this ring and kiss my rhyme to you
(written for my dearest friend elizbeth wesley.
everyone has a fan and friend on the soup, and
elizabeth is my heart! thankyou my love for all
of your dedicated compliments)!
If only I did not believe in love
My breath would kiss tomorrows lips with ease
But I have been heart-broken by your love
And only death can cure my hearts disease
Your smile seduced my soul to sleep with sin
Your eyes eclipsed with evenings I embraced
Your laughter lured my limbs to love with-in
Bedazzled by your blessings beauty traced
Sometimes a cold wind blows upon a branch
Causing its leaves to fall unto the ground
I do believe love caused my life to branch
Away from dreams as music without sound
After this sonnet that your eyes receive
Cold winds shall blow to breeze my branch to leave
Cupid, why hast thou cursed me with thy bow?
Enchanting my desires and compliments
Unto a woman who seems not to show
The same affections of my hearts contents
Of vibrant colors I pick each a flower
Laying them by her doorsteps where I daze
I dream of her awake at sunlight hour
Kissing her image that my mind displays
Yet I am like the rain above her head
The way she runs away from showered gifts
I never knew inside my heart could shred
Heartbroken by her distant love that drifts
Only if thy arrow and bow had missed
My fate and love for her would not exist
With pen I write to thee, Elizabeth
Whose comments I have noticed notably
No words can describe inspirations width
That thou has given unto my poetry
When writers block crippled my mental thought
Your adoration for my poems emerged
And distant from the Soup feeling distraught
Your views and kind reviews calmly converged
How could I tell, How should I know, My love
Are titles that your talents tell in rhyme
For you yourself, an author whom I love
Hath seasoned stanzas with the herb of thyme
Though distant as the lost and troubled winds
I hope to always be poetic friends
Under my clock whose time is froze
Resides a flock of restless crows
Restless myself I walk with woes
As if I hurt my head
And by itself a door would close
To my room that's ahead
My room has secrets no one knows
With walls of wood and black windows
The eerie feel of darkness blows
Her blouse upon my bed
Between the night she comes and goes
And I believe she's dead
Thou lay'st like a rose on deaths pillow
Silent and still, unsoothed by lifes request
Asleep the dawns and days of all and all
Eternity. My lovely Juliet
Wherefore art thou companions company?
Dost thou mockest life? "O my love, my wife!
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty"
Knows't not you of these intense tears that grow
Onto your soil a river of a kind
Thou body blooms, unscarr'd from cheek to bone
Thus trees and rivers art jealous of thine scent
But be it may thy mouth will ne'er move
Upon itself to echoe, Romeo!
Nay life will ne'er become a friend in hand
And I to life a friend, nay, I think not
The sun and moon shalln't make for watching eyes
To view me with life and not with thee, my love
Thyself I say art bandy with thyself
Yet man of all, I'm troubled at thy race
'Twas not the serpent that reward Eve bale?
And God created man, and bale is man
For in our families doth men collide
To often foredo every innocent thing
With swords where-in great morning and lights night
Tis fineless feuds our families perform
What bravery to birth our tragedy!
I balk that flesh is where abodements lay
O wife, I canst o'er-crow life in thine distance
May I afront death as thy hath approach'd?
Perchance I die with drink. Ay, there's the rub!
No time to fettle, ay, at once death come
Into my life as I drink thee in full
Slowly thy soul escapes. Thou art foredone
Soon to bewray thyself with waiting wife
Romeo and Juliet; How tragic is love
"this poem is not about what is written, but what is not written..."
My smile brings shores of shadows in the sky
A smile unsure of happiness and bliss
I touch the trees and watch their branches cry
A tear itself leaves from my face amiss
As tears and leaves descend into abyss
I come descending from the grey above
To bring a quarter of my seasons love
A love compared to death, natures demise
And with my lips I kiss the things you love
Secretly keeping Summer's butterflies!
Again, this time comes.
I shall undress these freckles
and wear your youth in honor.
Long journey of life.
Seconds of sand in my glass
shall fall upon your small hands.
Young beautiful nurse.
My husband older than I;
paralyzed and mostly mute.
My son, young like you;
if you only knew- my son
taught me how to save his youth.
Magic of black spells
decorate my husband's bed
as I touch his head and smile.
you ignored while in his room,
telling me that I'm the fool.
Soon in you was change.
As a home care nurse you felt
lack of faith would cause him death.
So then you believed-
garlic, myrrh, snake tongues and hymns;
anything to save his life.
Now your sacrifice
is complete; my freckles lost.
Take this mirror and see me!
My son; my husband-
reversed himself with he, just
as you are me and I...you.
To anyone and all
I am awestruck
as I attend
this some-what altered afternoon
altered in a way by
tiny tables among giants on words
sharing all unselfish things as
pen and tea harmonize in their hands.
These peaceful poets including I at this convention
all paired by four
tease time and essence before noon is dawn.
In all sincerity;
how nice it is to be a man at this table
whose beauty write themselves.
To my left of me my Mikki,
melting ice-cream on hot dessert
brings light to the table with
and like a Christmas present
All eyes were opened to a new awakening
And all could see The Breeze Amongst A Willow
a painting Emma drew with her words
the words that wind the wind to blow
poetry upon paper and pen.
Its nice to see Emma in front of me
frowning freestyles and smiling sonnets
causing our table to laugh its wood off!
to the right of Emma,
meditates the Measure of Happiness with two words:
Oh what beautiful art thou displays
poetic godmother; professor of poetry.
These visitors of poets I do adore.
In thus they asked for me to speak of me...
and I recited Visitors nervous with nerves
for with each line I scared myself.
Next time I'll think I'll speak of Sleeping Kisses.
at the table:
Table of Four
if i die before the day
heal the hurt that i have laid
on fragile flesh and innocent minds
that by chance became my shade
if i sleep eternal nights
save a prayer for the sick
sheltered in the poison ivy
by my hands now in contempt