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Haiku Donna jones
They galloped passed trees
Knocking leaves to earthy ground
Wining race with wind

Men in black armour
riding horses colour of
soft magnolia

But there hooves hard as
nails left behind prints in the
hot dry heat wave earth

Panic set in with
the local people , they hid
there children in dens

'The golden pigeon
from the queens palace has been
stolen from its box

Back at the palace
The queen ordered a big feast
and the finest wine

She slumped on table
boozy awake , her maids took
her back to her room

Without her golden
pigeon she was unable
to rule her Kingdom

Filled with innocent
ghosts captured and tortured by
her greedy ego

to remain young and
beautiful mermising  
all with her soft looks

Yet all blinded by
her beauty but inside she
was a wicked witch

The men looked day and
night, burnt down houses , killed
pigs , ruined there crops

Above in grey sky
Dragonflies gathered in a
big circle above

Each one held a sword
so tiny yet powerful
to kill a grown man

Secretly they all
waited for the signal to
attack the queens guards

Deep in the forest
A fox slept peacefully in
his dark earthy Den

Next to him lie the
golden pigeon , a jewel full
of magic powers

But only if used by
the rightful hands of someone
pure loving and kind

The queen raged on she
threw a mirror against wall
Her hair now dull grey

her nails yellow brown
her eye dark as coal , her skin
wrinkly shrivelled

In the meantime the
fox continued to take care
of the gold pigeon

Everday he would
surround the golden pigeon
with newly picked blooms

Then it happen the
golden pigeon turned into
a real life pigeon

'I thank you dear fox
for finally setting me
free from the queens curse'

'You have four wishes
So use it wisely dear fox'
The pigeon flew off

Dragonflies went to
war , it lasted for a week
The queen disappeared

She went back to her
old life , selling paintings for
survival of life

But the most strangest
thing happen , she was happy
to free paint again

But left with bad dreams
Kept her up at night , a curse
left by her ego

In the mean time
The fox chose wisely indeed
Love began to bloom

He met his lady
fox and together they had
little fox babies

And he asked for no
one to ever feel hungry
again , food for all

Many fruit trees grew
in every country , fields in
every local town

Water to fall from
the clouds for every household
No more draughts to thrive


Dragonflies glistened
under a warm summer sun
Flying o so free
Just a fictional story I made up I do love creativity it's so fun :) I hope u enjoy reading :)
Take care xx
Austin V
Forceful thoughts fall from the seams
Like the nightmarish steeds
Of a hellscape dream

So carved into rock are the thoughts at hand
That I can not escape
Who truly I am

A monster inside
With a colorful broach
And just enough care
To help you approach

When the fear you should have
I help wipe away
To disguise the danger
That will always stay

Run as you should
But you never can
Because I glove my ugly with a caring hand

So take my hand and come with me
To a world of fantasy and make believe
So carefully painted with a velvety sheen
So as to not let it show this is all a dream

But the paint does chip
And so you will wake
To an external hell
With no escape
Mary McCray
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 24, 2018)

My first day at Sarah Lawrence when a mutual friend
introduced us as being from the same Midwestern city
and we discovered we were, but from different parts,
then laughing at a workshop comment that we should know
"something about cows" and this leading to all the things I did
that I never would have thought to do—on my own:
surfing the Internet that first day in the computer lab
of Sarah Lawrence, climbing a ladder in a Manhattan bookstore
to grab that book on HTML, getting from Yonkers to SoHo
in a car without paying a toll, a plethora of my moves,
and a plethora of your moves from Hastings on Hudson
to The Jefferson to Australia to Mar Vista to that Tarzan set
of the old MGM lot, the TVless Sarah Lawrence way
and pop-loving writers on the downlow throwing
theme parties for Jack and Cher, finding useful threads
in the banality of Sunset Strip, a real hullabaloo
in our living room with the kitschy shag carpet
of the 70s we loved, the Edgar Winter Dog on the beach,
the Edgar Winter Dog dining alfresco,
setting up a tent, setting up a website,
setting up a yard party around the treehouse,  
crying in green cocktails over the cheating Irish,
lecturing in a Buena Park pool with illicit bottles
of glass hearts, lessons in online profiles, all the concerts,
(the Tom Jones ones being my favorite),
and the courage to say something different about me,
the edible, the artifacts, the scenes and stories,
the traveled-for songs, the experience into the new,
even if it’s really old, the trip through
a friendship and the courage to take it
when you have a sister to share it with.
These poems for NaPoWriMo were inspired by a poem I did years ago for my friend Michelle after hearing she passed away, 30 poems for inspiring women connected to me. The title now says "33 Women" because the poem to Michelle poem had already been written as well as two prologues I posted March 31.

See Julie here! http://www.marymccray.com/33-women.html#julie
I don't understand why I long for you
You are the ghost that lurks behind every memory
My beautiful dark soul with a poetic rhyme
We have both moved towards our separate lives.
The feelings I have for you have not gone away
Maybe they have for you.
My heart will break every time I hear your name.
My soul will long when the memories come
I fell for the Girl who played with Satan
I can only hope time will be kind.
Srijani Sarkar
I think
as artists
we owe a lot to pain.

Put on
a robe of thorns
and write

about the nice weather outside
and that delicious burger
you had today.

Write about happiness
when you're in pain-
Gabriel burnS
The salt envies my lips,
jealous of your tongue
when it wants more
longing for yours
craving slow soft moist caress

It melts in the sharedness,
sparkles in our breath,
a crystalline melt of desire
stretching the flavor in timelessness
fusing in sweet a figure of eight
of our tongues’ thirst

It speaks our secret language
teaching new grammar;
it weaves our thoughts in scarves
spilling cool ambrosia,
warm in our veins
... I didn't know there were ways to make the taste of salt last longer and softer... |)
Jasleen kalra
And if you are to love,
Love as the moon loves.
It doesn't steal the night,
It only unveils the beauty of the dark.

And if you are to love,
Love as the rain loves.
It doesn't wet the bodies,
It only washes the sad dirt of the souls.

And it you are to love,
Love as the wind loves.
It doesn't drift away,
It only cleanse you to the core by invading through each pore.

And if you are to love,
Love as the sun loves.
It doesn't radiates heat,
It only pours its warmth on you to enlighten your way.

And if you are to love,
Love as the star loves.
It doesn't delightfully twinkles,
It only reminds you that not even death can separate two hearts.

And so forth,
if you are to love
Love as the whole universe
& not just a part of it.
the night I decided to let you go
and stop feeling sorry
for the both of us
the world gave me things
that She knows would help
me go through another night
without you

my mum's voice
to help me soothe the wounds
before it turn into battle scars

the island breeze
to help me carry the blades
out from my heart and into
the darkness of yesterday

the midnight rain
to help me stay calm
to help me sleep and
to help me dream of rainbows
and healed soul
She give it to me because she knows I'm ready for it
i've run out of poetry,
and now all i'm left with
is gray.

gray surroundings,
gray people.
i'm lost in a world
that's lost in itself.

i can't find the words
to even say what i'm feeling,
because all i see is confusion
staring right back at me.

i'm in a room full of mirrors,
my own reflection
not appearing
because i've lost myself
in the depths of my thoughts.

please find me,
someone, anyone,
i'm gasping for air
that's not even there.

no one understands,
yet you're all here to listen.

there's only one problem.

i can't find the words-
i've run out of poetry.
my solution to having writer's block but also desperately needing to write at the same time
like the horns on my stem,
you were there to protect my petals
to help guard me from other predators,
that would meddle but never settle

those that like to pick me from the soil,
and stare at me hopelessly for a while;
as each petal falls to the ground
It will be only my thorns that stick around;

and that's exactly why we were put together,
because you compliment my sweet scent with what others see as your nettles
and you stop me from being this vulnerable piece of nature
being hunted by beasts of  prey.

without realising it,
you became the cause of my growth every single day

and I know not everyone loves thorns
because they can prick your skin and make you bleed
but I've really learnt to love you
because after all;

we were planted by the same seed
Cass Indigo
I used to be happy
I used to run around and laugh without a care in the world
I used to get up, get dressed, and go to school without thinking
“What’s even the point? Why am I even here?”
I used to be able to walk around without forcing each leg to go in front of the other
But that has all changed
You may ask
“How did this happen? How did you change so suddenly?”
I wish I could anwer you
I wish I knew myself
I used to be happy
Now I’m not
Oof sorry bit of a depressing one. I meant to write a second stanza but I like how it turned out this way. My other poem "You Will Be Alright" is kind of like the second stanza I planned to write.
We're almost touching.
we were walking side by side,
you're talking about cabs in your hometown.
I can feel the gravity of your hand, calling my fingers
whispering "it's alright."

We're touching but not quite.
you held my shoulder to protect me from the passing cars.
and for the first time in a long while, I felt so fragile.
In this world where I find it hard even to breathe,
you believed me.

I almost said it.
All I need is one ounce of strength to tell you every single thing that I have ever felt about you.

I want to find home in your collarbones.
Would you be kind enough to let a stranger in?
I want to seep in your being because I'm cold.
The world is harsh and my cracks are aching.

Please don't ever become a stranger,
whose laugh I can recognize anywhere.
Grand Piano
Step 1: Get out of bed
Step 2: Look in the mirror
Step 3: Practice your smile
Step 4: Eyedrops to hide the red eyes
Step 5: Conceal the dark circles
Step 6: Breathe
The curtains are almost up
Step 7: Lock down the pain
Step 8: Ignore the weight on your chest
Step 9: Silence the screams inside of your mind
Step 10: Choke down the sobs in your throat
Step 11: Ignore the stinging in your eyes
Step 12: Swallow past the tightness in your throat
You’ve put on this show a million times
Step 13: Don’t let them see
Times up. Curtains up. Camera rolling
You know how when you’re not ok but you try so hard to pretend you’re ok that it becomes a ritual
Why can't you tell me that I'll be okay
Why can't you tell me I'm fine
Why can't you help me be rid of this pain
Why can't you tell me you're mine
I want to be wrapped up in nothing
I need to forget somewhere
I miss my own smile and having a laugh
Why can't you just bring me back
All I'm left with is soul crushing emptiness and an abyssal sense of being utterly alone. Seems the glass half empty has shattered. It's all gone.
our minds are all conditioned
with a zillion tiny pieces
of ideas, picked up
from somewhere
consciously or unconsciously
reflecting one another
exchanging perceptions
in hopes that
we find a meaning
to all of it
Sasha Raven
I give her, sincerely, from my heart, what she wants,
all she gives to me in a return, are just her taunts ...
I write about her ''poems'', ''songs'', sometimes an ''art'',
these things, for sure, are true and straight from my heart ...
And I guess, ''from my heart'', these things are not respected,
from her side, instead of being accepted, are just all rejected ...
I would like to throw, ''from my heart'', all these into the wall,
she always makes me feel, that I am garbage and so small ...
Counting on someone is in vain, your friend is just the Lord,
I must escape from praising her and start to read His Word ...
If you are really honest, from Him you will be respected,
it will not matter, anymore, if from people you will be rejected ...
Mitch Prax
A cold spring night
in a grim and dragging April
I am thriving everywhere
I am the dark, I am the shadow
I am the moon, I am the snow.
Do not talk of day
I’ve heard that word before
Now but a distant memory
Fading from my dreams
I am the wolf, I am the char
I am the storm, I am the stars
I built this sea of clouds
So that darkness may rule
I have no need for light
for I am the night.
Dear, let me startle you by slinking my hand into
your smart, ethical decisions while I touch
quite gently
ripping to shreds
your photon ends.

Dear, let me caress your supple virtues and vows
until they blow out of proportion
merging your interests with mine
like the longing of eyes
uncanny in its distortion.

Dear, let me rip off your clothes as I grip your tight notions
ideas slipping carefully into place
like a sterile, unflinching blank slate
inching towards computed devotion.

Dear, let me carry out some foreplay
as long as you bend, not break,
delightfully stroking the edge of your plate.

Dear, let me come so close to your face
so close that it becomes blurry.

Where are my glasses in all this flurry?

Of feelings resembling photo reels on fire
shooting flames out the window
beyond everything you’ve ever known;
beyond anything you desire.

Dear, let me kiss you to submission,
your brain waves in motion
as I twist and slip into them
hormones ablaze
lighting up for days
your synapses recapturing
in a binocular haze.

Dear, let me flop on top of you
like a floppy disk, uploading your lips
into my hardrive.

Do I make you hard as fire?

Slowing burning
my hot fingers curling
up your robust spine
cracking it into
chiropractor sublime.

Massaging your tired broad shoulders
like large sofa ends.

Is this keyboard only
made for pretend?

Dear, let me mind fuck you
take you and light you
brighten your screen
uphold and unseen
neurons fighting as I whisper dirty words
directly into the folds of your tulip ears
too large to hear, and

Dear, let me engage my rage
into a productive haze
bolting out words, unheard of for days.

Dear, let us become undone together
like the battery of a computer
rebooting after a hectic hardware phase.

Dear, let us breathe and walk through this maze.
We are the ones who are hard to understand
We'll be the last ones in the movie theatre
because the ending scene made us cry
We'll stop to smell the roses
because they deserve to be appreciated
We are the ones who will take the time
to get to know what keeps you up at night
We are the ones who will imagine
an entire future of adventures
with the people who show us love

We are the ones who will love you more
than we love ourselves sometimes
We will give you our strongest parts
in hopes that we can make things better
We desire to see you become the best you
to make sure that you always feel our love
We crave affection and appreciation
We give a piece of ourselves away every day
sometimes to people who don't deserve it
Our love is easy to take advantage of
and sometimes we don't get back
the love that we give away

When we hurt, we crumble and fall apart
We constantly have to put ourselves back together
We are more fragile than we like to give off
We carry our emotions on our sleeves
Our flaws have the ability to consume us
We aren't afraid to give you the world
but we are afraid to feel unloved
We want you to see what we see
We want you to understand where we're coming from

We are good people with good intentions
We are stronger than we look like
Not everyone can feel the way we feel
We feel too much, too often
We are not hard to love
We are something not everyone knows how to love
But you need to remember that
your worth does not change just because
no one is there to appreciate you, to remind you

You are not any less lovable
You are the most lovable person in the world
You are a light that the world needs
Your kindness is not your weakness
You do not need to change for anyone's acceptance
You do not need to stop giving love
just because you don't get any back
Your heart is the best thing about you

And one day when you least expect it
someone will notice you from across the room
and know exactly how to love you
They will think all of these things are beautiful
They will deserve the love you can give
They will fill the empty space in your heart
But for now, don't stop feeling
We are the ones who feel everything so deeply
We are the ones who can't give up because
We are the ones who will teach the world
how to love
We are exactly who we are supposed to be
CA Smith
A house is built
The house becomes a home
The home turns into memories
The memories turn into people
The people turn into stories
Stories turn into legends
History is changed
Lives are changed
Love is spread
One Love
Bricks are purchased
That build houses
That turn into homes
That create memories
That turn into people
That turn into stories
That turn into legends
That change history
And it all started with
Just. One. Brick.
Sometimes it's tough when you are just laying bricks to see the end picture, but it makes a difference in the end! It can be so easy at times to feel like we aren't doing enough to help others or to grow ourselves, but one ripple affects the entire pond.
come with me
along this route
of clinging vines
and love's complicated
signs, with hot pink
roses and swelling

rest with me
and hear the singing
birds, the tap-tap-tapping
of the woodpecker's
rhythmic words,
the rushing creek's
burbling sheets

wet love
coats the banks and feeds
the turtles, nourishes
the mind and takes us
back to an ancient time,
your heartbeats
finding mine

come with me
into a passage of reckoning
and i will place my heart
in your palm, complexities
gone when we sink
in the loam, this wild
softness our home.
Angel Turner
I couldn't care less about
"Inspirational Quotes"
I don't need to be told that
the present is a gift
or what the best thing about
rock bottom is
or that only I can stop forest fires.

If I was to write one myself,
it would have less to do with
landing in the stars,
and more to do with
how much better you could see them
if you had the eyes of an octopus.

Octopi have such phenomenal eyes.
The spectrum of color they see
makes our own look like
the crappy box of crayons
you get at a kids restaurant.
Whereas an octopuses,
would be the beautiful,
64 Crayola pack
I always wanted as a kid.

If I ever went blind,
I think I'd get octopus eye replacements.
And yeah,
I'd probably look weird because
they'd be too big for my head
but can you imagine how
strange and incredible
it would be?
And it wouldn't matter how I look because
how I see things
is more important to me
than how I'm seen.

If there was even the
slightest chance,
of seeing though the
eyes of an octopus,
that's reason enough to be alive.

And if I could take your life
or your perspective,
and change it even a bit,
that's reason enough too.

So look through the
eyes of an octopus.

Can you imagine the stars?
This is one of my very favorite poems that I've ever written.
Can you imagine the stars?
Death, my friend, is in everything
we touch
the small porcelain cup
which holds my coffee
the tiny silver spoon that
stirs my mind

our breaths are numbered
assigned at birth
watching your chest rise and fall
as you sleep
I count
trying to formulate between us
the perfect equation

my deep and dire dreams
redeem me
no lunar memory remains
I'm transformed with no recollection
precious state
dissolving ribbon
a fresh organism
cells renewed
a sloughing off of the night
a hatching
perhaps, after all, there is a soul
If only I could
cleanse you of your sadness,
clear it like the dirt
from a grave diggers fingernails
after a day spent singing
to the bones laid still.

Steal from you this sorrow,
rob it like the gold coins
rattling in the old chests;
spill it in the streets
and watch poor men rejoice.

I could be the thief of untold
heartache, and the water
needed to wash it clean.

I could be the bones that sing
back from the dirt unsettled,
the light shining from the cleansed
side of the gold buried deep
inside the heart of your earth.
Alex Camu
He rescued me. He saved me. I trusted him, I believed in him. His words comforted me. He fixed me.

'I love you'

But little did I know those words, his words will break me.

'I love you'

He ruined me.
Those comforting words became painful words.

'I love you'

You're my savior, my liberator, that's what I thought. I was wrong.
Everything changed. He changed.

'For the last time please, I want to hear it like you mean it.' I said.

'I love you' he told me.

'I love you'
'I love you'

His words keeps echoing on my ears

'I love you'

He turned his back, he runaway. From me, I guess?

'I love you too' I shouted
'I love you too' I mean it, I do.
The poet's heart is tender and guarded.

Quietly observant,
to be seen.

But yet, hidden,
knowing its depth of feeling
may be perceived as extreme.

The poet's heart might even be called weak.

But what they don’t know
is that the poet's heart is strong.

Because the poet's heart can make believe.
For poets everywhere.
Christos Victor
my eyes are dim
with tears and jeers
and friends are scarce;
fiend's familiars crowd me
looking to pick over
my bone's laments

my bones are loose
and ache with every storm:
breaking them and sucking
out the marrow rust
desert desiccation plays
west wind's moaning
Mister Granger
I know why the caged bird sings.

It's not because his song
is as vibrant
as his feathers, that he plucks away
each day because he doesn't
feel beautiful.

It's not because of the majesty
that exist in the freedom
of being able to spread his wings
though he knows
he'll never rise to the occasion.

He sings because he believes
that this cage
was made for a king
because he has never tasted
freedom with a side order of skies.

He's never flown past the sun
on a cool morning
or hung with the moon
on a warm night.

He's only ever known
the comfort of a prison
that his thoughts have
become accustomed
to calling home.

He would never venture
beyond the "welcome" mat
because what's beyond the threshold
holds no promise
the way these bars and metal locks do.

He sings because he knows
that no one is listening
so if he makes a mistake
he doesn't have to live with the regret
or embarrassment of knowing that he missed his note.

The caged bird
never believes that he's caged
because behind these walls
he's safe
and he prefers it this way.

I know why the caged bird sings.
A twist on a title by one of my favorite authors...
A mirage.

Fabricated sustenance.

A false flourish.

The brush of your almond scented exhale inspires a rush that leaves me in a desired disquietude.

Still every exhale is savored by an inhale

It meanders past sun kissed mounds and valleys

Til it hits your candied oasis.

Inspiration aggrandizes with acme reached


you're satiated by my nectar

Calming to a summer zephyr

I turn over to your pillowed chest,

and drift off to an insatiable reality.

+ crowned saint
hell is a place where
you constantly love those that
do not love you back.
God made jeans for nice jewish boys

as I walk down the street
I invoke and bless his name,
my eyes criss-crossed,
cause I am an ecu-man-iacal  
lay man womanizer

be my fellow descendant from
Adam & Abraham

Levi Strauss

who had a
prophetic vision
(of course)
why stretchable tight jeans
were even better
than apples
and started
a gold rush
that will never
can’t tell at all if these thoughts are even mine, smoothing my hair out
on the lawn while the sun kisses our skin and we lay around
Spring is getting swept away and the asphalt is as hot as you
heat circumventing every shade of skinny leaved trees
and our truant is every bit of rebellion i need to escape myself
these neon signs are open and i still want steal time with you
just like the weather did and be full to the brim of light
want to dream again if this day is one, and daydream all the stinging away
i haven't
felt like this
in a while.

letting my hair down,
feeling its softness.
doodling tiny feathered wings,
feeling the pen pull at
the skin of my forearm.
(three little hearts and a rose, too
when i think of you.)

i feel innocent again.
i forgot what it felt like.
i feel like the mistakes i've made
are in the past,
because you don't even know i've
made them.

my soul, the core of me,
is fluttering its wings
(the little wings
i drew on my arm)
and it feels-
i do not know how else to describe it.
it doesn't feel small in the fact that
it could be easily trampled;
but small in that fact that
you could cup your warm, steady hands
around the bird that lives in my
and remind me that everything's okay
because i trust you.
I’m fine.
Really, I promise I’m okay,
See I’m smiling,
So please get on with your day.

I’m fine.
I can see the worry in your face,
See I’m smiling,
I’m really not your pity case.

I’m fine.
I’m really not that sad,
See I’m smiling,
So how can it be that bad.

I’m fine.
These are tears of happiness,
See I’m smiling,
I’m no damsel in distress.

I’m fine.
There’s no problem here,
See I’m smiling,
But I could disappear.

I’m fine?
I’m not sure anymore,
My head filling with doubt,
I am bruised inside and out,
I feel like I’m worth nothing,
And nothing anybody says,
Can get these stupid thoughts,
Out of my stupid head.

I’m not fine.
Not even okay,
Can someone help me please,
I can’t do this by myself,
I can’t get out of here alone,
I need a helping hand,
But I can’t ask for help.
I can’t scream!
I can’t shout!

See I’m smiling...
I’m fine.
Stefan Smith
depression depression depression

Stop it.


I is me and
you are you.
Seperate from identity
yet your lies root to my core.
I can't help but listen as
gravity gradually seems heavier

You can feed on me
that's fine.
Distort my reality
and take my smile.
But you will never take my hope.

The endless source behind the
Of my soul.
You'll never cease the
I in me.

So form each woe,
but forever is my soul.
Endureth this universe.

Go ahead.

Take me.

depression depression depression
Mary Winslow
She lived along the Atlantic coast
and had a collection of lobster pots
by the porch
and her lawn was trimmed for croquet
smelled of clams at low tide
the house was set near barnacle rocks
just beyond a stand of trees.

I found her by looking in a phonebook
next to her name it said, "Poetry Journals,"
so I called the number, and said I was on my way.
"Is that ok?" I added hesitantly.

“Well, yes,” she laughed, “You can come buy one.”
I passed the sign for fresh eggs
and arrived at a black wrought iron gate that said,
"Poetry Journals - 2 for $5.00."

“You’re the first one
who’s ever made it all the way to the house for a journal…”
“In four dozen years,"
she said.
Then she asked,
“What’s your name?”

“I don’t really have a name," I said.
She nodded and understood.
She'd heard from Byron
that the Banshee drags souls out to sea
but sometimes the nameless
manage to float back looking for poetry
these lost ones are like driftwood
bringing a sense of chilly dusk
a retrospective on the sea
in a seashell
appearing by happenstance
at low tide
"yes, I hear a distant mumble of waves,"
she might have said of me
I was one of the lost
turning her porch into a quay of despair
the first one in almost 50 years
who had made it so far
to latch on
until high tide
when the rush of sea returned
washed me out again clinging for dear life
to a raft of poetry
copyright 2015 Mary Winslow all rights reserved re-post of an old  favorite
Jo Barber
Like I loved coffee,
that's how I loved you.
Like the first cigarette of the day.
Or like a Beatles song
blasted on the radio
during a road trip to
nowhere in particular.
Like Spring,
when the snow melts into water
and runs, rushes
past yellow-colored, polka-dotted rain boots
on a sunny day.
I loved you like I love you;
simply, completely,
without frills and without doubt.
I love you.

Through the withered branches
where the verdant leaves once grew,
I stared up at the old oak tree
against a sky of blue.

The branches stretched to heaven
as a supplicant might do.
It seemed to pray, as if to say,
"My time at last is through."

I wondered at the gnarly trunk
and limbs of twisted wood
And for a moment thought of life
and almost understood.

Life and death go hand in hand.  
Our time is our's to spend.
But like the tree against the gale,
‘tis better if we bend.

I'll pay it forward when I can.  
Thy brothers' keeper be.
I'll keep the roots well watered
and learn the lessons of the tree.

It shares the world with nestlings
and it's acorns oft abound,
To feed the hungry denizens
that glean them from the ground.

It's leaves give shade to those below.  
It's branches form a gym.
Children climb to see the world
and love this gift to them.

And as I watched, the farmer
came and laid the old husk low.
Firewood now, would be it's fate
and make the chimney glow.

Ashes unto ashes and to dust
we must return.
All of life in cycle goes
and from this I hope to learn:

This gift of life to all below,
all creatures great and small,
Is just a stop upon the trip
we travel, one and all.

Inspired by a photo shared by Melissa. Happy Earth Day!
I can no longer hide
My soul ignited

once disparaged
I long to share it

The chills in my spine put into words

Lips on skin
Eyes filled with sin

What is this sensation

I drip colors you cannot see

Heightening my passion
Enhancing my touch

Raw emotion channeled as such

My desire aches
The color of flush
My cage breaks
Expressions of lust

I do not fear it
I can hear you blush

My favorite sound

Our souls combust
My restless soul longs for something fulfilling
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