Decorative stonework windows

of blackness and grime

echo hatred versus love.

Yet the sidewalks follow

one red umbrella home

far from the dark clouds

and the pitter-patter of raindrops.



I want more than anything to escape

but these chains of grief

keep me captive and weak.

I have always been meek but strong,

but now I am living in a maze

and can't seem to find a clear path.

Every path is crooked and winding.



Yet the red umbrella is drying out;

so maybe the rain will move to someone else.

And maybe I will just put on a tomato red dress

to break the chains of grief for just one day.

Then I will twirl and twirl to a sixties song

and dance around my house

leaving a link at a time in each room.



Maybe the blackness and grime of tomorrow

will start to bleed into colors of yellow and pink.

And maybe I will become a new spring blossom

with a new beauty emerging out of the ***** ground.

Then I will attract the butterflies and the bees

to become the best version of who I was meant to be

and leave the blackness and grime far behind.

Vega the weaver patiently sits
on her enchanted workbench
of cobwebs and silvery beams
skillfully weaving her pictures
of dreams spun in azure blues
and pinpoint dots of stars
early Christmas gifts are made
for all her fairytale friends
the wooded sprites of forest glades
fairy princesses of glowing leaves
and elves of playful mayhem
though the Christmas holiday
is about seven months away
while a drunken crescent moon lay down
on his back sipping a flask of Planter's ***
on a lake of scattered moonbeams

Down among
the Juniper trees,
my soul is hidden
in the misty cries
of Nature's joy,
in the diamond-facets
of its brilliancy.

~~~Stars, the diamonds
~~~The Moon, the light

My soul the dance
of a myriad of angels,
their harps the instruments
of angelic resonance,
their music the melody
of their hearts aflame
with God's Love, His faithfulness.

My soul hidden beneath
the shade of the Juniper trees.
Sweet echoes of angelic majesty
clothing my soul in threads
of gold and silver,
in the sweet rejoicing
of the Creator
of such angelic beauty,
such leafy limbs of angelic grace.

Bronzed kisses
under a bronze sky...

Were you a statue
and I the sculptor,
I could not have sculpted
your perfection, your perfect love.
But you glisten in the noonday
Sun, perfect skin roasting
to a dark tan.  I view
you with awe marveling
at the Creator Who created you
with such intricate detail,
with such a skilled wonder.
And, I am lost in the talent
of the art, consumed by

bronzed kisses
under a bronze sky.