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S. Medland Poem
"Beauty is only skin deep",
At least, that's what they say.
Certainly a colorful disposition,
Will never grow old and gray.
Even those with cracks,
Let the inner light shine through.
So yes, beneath layers of epidermis,
There is a one and only you.
Some people show their beauty,
To everyone they meet.
Some will need a bit more time,
Before they find their feet.
Yet others seem so stony,
Behind their rusty eyes.
But the truth of their patina,
Shows a heart they can't deny.
A budding heart is so sincere,
Breeding splendor in the mind.
And, breathtaking as it unfurls,
In the soul of our design.
Held precious by its' beholder,
In any given space.
Proves that even in the darkness,
We're bound by radiance and grace.
Copyright © S. Medland | Year Posted 2016
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S. Medland Poem
The World Wide Web,
Is a daunting thing.
It connects us with others,
We've never seen.
We navigate with caution,
Not knowing what lurks.
A valuable road map,
In spite of its' quirks.
With due diligence we filter,
The lies from the truth.
Always accepting its' flaws,
Because of its' youth.
Walter Scott said it best,
Though I doubt he did conceive,
His prophetic pen to paper,
In "What a tangled web we weave".
Copyright © S. Medland | Year Posted 2016
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S. Medland Poem
Alone in my own private spectrum,
Sadness consumes me.
Anguish, sorrow, bitterness,
It's all there.
Creating shadow.
No one can see behind my painted facade.
It's amazing.
Bewildering.
But I'm thankful for the deceptive pastels.
They cover me.
Protect me.
Without them, I harbor no intriguing color.
No charming landscape.
No delightful perspective.
The underlying colors are vivid and deep.
They define me.
My canvas absorbs them greedily.
I'm an ever changing portrait,
If one but looks.
For a brief, beautiful moment,
Another artist stopped,
and gazed appreciatively upon my vivid depths.
I was an art of his interpretation.
I was a beautiful masterpiece.
He focused kindly on every graceful line.
Until he found fault.
And, as he moved on,
My appreciation in my contrast diminished.
Now, I'm just a picture without dimension.
The brief light fading my pastels.
Alone in my own private spectrum,
Where sadness consumes me, and my colors bleed.
Copyright © S. Medland | Year Posted 2016
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S. Medland Poem
It's impossible to quiet,
A troubled mind.
With thoughts unwelcome,
And so unkind.
Playing Devils advocate,
For a different view.
Only adds more questions,
Of what is true.
So how do you know,
Without taking it apart?
Though doing so shreds,
A ponderous heart.
Where is the scale,
To balance this weight?
Of unforgiving knowledge,
And unspoken debate.
It's a mystery to me,
And my compass spins.
My thoughts ever turning,
So lost in the din.
Copyright © S. Medland | Year Posted 2016
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