The Humming Bird feeder is full to the top.
Do they not come around any more?
The tree is bare of its sheltering leaves
So it’s not out of sight like before.

In this Winter of feeling afraid and alone
The tiniest bird can bring joy
And hope that tomorrow will come as a gift
That we can unwrap like a toy.

The days have drug by at a crippling pace;
People have gone by the wayside.
It seemed like eternity marched on ahead
And life was just one frozen sleigh ride.

As we slowly awake from a desperate sleep
It’s clear we’re not out of the woods,
But at last in front of us there is a path
That will lead us from evil to good.

A light has come on in our government’s home;
The dark specter’s been wafted away.
A promise of better times floats on the breeze
With the chance for a sunnier day.

As I look out the window, my heart skips a beat
The sun glances off glistening wings
I see not one, but two humming birds
At the feeder, and now my heart sings.
   ljm

What’s the purpose of it all
It’s only raining dust and grit.
The sky is weeping spatter
And the only sidewalk is
On the far side of the street.

They shined up Highway 95
But out front here is nothing
But deep breaches in the tarmac
And anything that doesn’t hurt
Me manages to itch.

All the good stuff is locked up
In upstairs rooms down endless halls
Where something has been splashed
Across the carpeting
And the door is always padlocked.

The book inside is second handed
And it’s marked up in random places
That don’t align with what
The index says should be there
And the Ex Libris page is missing.

The day is pecking at its shell
Of hopelessness and need
In hopes of gaining freedom.
The prayer wheel is no longer spinning
And the crimson candle has gone out.

There are reasons for it all
It’s written up in Sanskrit ink
And plastered on the backyard wall
That keeps it all inside or out
And I’m stuck in the middle.
ljm

There is nothing
All the jars and cans
Sit empty on the shelves.
There is no hope for more.
The roads to everywhere are closed.
And Greyhound doesn’t stop here any more.

Everything is nebulous.
The equipment is all broken down
And rusting outside in the rain.
We ordered from a catalog
But never got a shipment back,
And our check was never cashed.

There is nothing in the pipeline.
The doorbell doesn’t seem to work.
The screen door has a hole in it,
Patched with pages
Ripped from next week’s calendar,
And the phone declines to ring.

Everything is over now,
The happy times
Are past and gone.
All that’s left to us is weeping
And the Kleenex box is empty,
So the tears make puddles on the floor.

All we see through tear filled eyes:
Another day in paradise.
            ljm

Thoughts,
like fingers trailing in the water of a quiet lake,
making ripples that fan out and eventually fade
into the stillness that makes reverie a balm
to mend the broken pieces of my wounded spirit.

Small boat
big enough for only two but I’m alone and very still,
paddles stowed and sunhat on, I drift
on currents imperceptible and slow
in directions that the birds won’t tell me.

Pine Trees
on the distant shore, unmoving in the tiny breeze,
create the vision of a cool and private place of safety
not for me, but for all those I cannot see but know
are sheltered in their shadowed depths.

Tiny Fishes
going happily about their business, clearly seen
beneath my little boat in water that’s so clear
they seem just inches from my trailing fingers,
Unafraid that they might be in danger.

Dragonfly
neon needle in the sky darting close to visit me
then swooping left to disappear against the sun
and leave me musing in my tiny boat as I discover
I am whole and healed of spirit, and can go on.
ljm

No more tears allowed.
There is a Palace at the end of this road,
Which turned out to be long and stony,
Pieces washed out by floods of tears
And avalanches of regrets,
Highwaymen around each corner.

No more sobbing in the night.
The castle walls are within sight
And the drawbridge is slowly coming down.
There is a light in the tower window
And the smell of dinner in the air.
Only one last mile to conquer
And at last I will be safely home.
ljm

Nixon’s enemy list was
The Kindergarten primer
For the list that starts today.
                         ljm

The unsmelled rose on the back of the bush
Is mocked by the one in the vase
But water can not replace good soil
And the unsmelled rose laughs last.

ljm

JINGLES

Sad in such a happy place
I can’t find my clown suit

Nor the paint to make a cheerful face
And I forgot the song I sing.

All too often that’s the case
I haven’t any joy to share

And I cannot keep up this pace
I know I soon must find a way

To exit with a little grace
And vanish me without a trace.
ljm

Life was fine for just a little while
Until it wasn’t pretty any more,
And I remembered how
The Sea sends waves
Across a rugged beach
I can no longer get to,
And the bottoms of my feet
Are aching for the sand.
The seagulls know the answer
To this problem
But they will almost never tell
       ljm

It’s all over now
All ******* with a velvet ribbon and ready to be put away
With the other memories saved for my old age.
Why can’t I close the closet door on it.
Why am I reluctant to consign it to the dark.
It was only twenty years and a single child.
It was only everything I ever wanted and much less.
I’m the one who rang the final gong
Why is it’s echo so discordant.

Maybe the things saved for my golden years
Should be unpacked right now.
Perhaps I lost track of time, and now the moment’s here.
Why do I expect the gold to have turned green.
How do I know the dust can not be blown away.
It can’t be midnight for more than an hour.
Why shouldn’t the sun come up again today.

It’s all over now
And nothing can be changed.  Life provides few erasers for our use.
What has been will be forever.  What is gone is lost forever.
Tomorrow will arrive in empty boxes
And I’m the one who put them in the mail.
I suppose they’ll all come postage due -
And me with only credit cards.
I wonder if the bank is open at this hour
And if this check is any good.

Maybe I should not be home when the postman rings the bell.
Perhaps I should be out job hunting when he comes.
Why do I think no one will hire me,
There’s no reason to despair.
There’s lots of kinds of things I do
How do I know I’ll never do them again.
Why shouldn’t I be usefully employed.

It’s all over now
And time to get on with whatever it was that seemed it would be better.
Time to see if pig ears really do become silk purses.
Time to learn how many hills I’ve yet the legs to climb.
Why aren’t I excited at the prospect of new vistas?
I couldn’t possibly have seen them all.
Perhaps the rain and fog have put me off.
I shiver in the wet and can’t see through the mist-
Which leaves me ever standing here, right beside the closet.
                                      

I’ve always had this fantasy
That if you die and go to Heaven
You’re not aware of earthly things
But if somebody left below
Should think of you, a bell rings.

A bell that only you can hear
With such lovely tinkling sound
A bell that tells you someone cared
That someone’s thinking of your smile,
Remembering the times you’ve shared.

Other Angels all around
Are doing what the angels do
Then one will stop and tilt her head
And you know that she’s hearing things
And smiling with the joy it brings.
ljm

Plowing fields of acid soil
Where nothing good will ever grow
I swelter in the summer sun
And didn’t bring some water.
ljm

A  sliver of the moon
Wearing the North star as a hat
Perches over a cotton candy sunrise
In an otherwise clear sky.
Morning in Nevada.
ljm

There is an addictive beauty in sadness
It’s easy to get hooked on pain
It’s a one-way street to depression
With no way to get out again.

You feel so good after crying
You sometimes must invent a good reason
There’s some kind of comfort in sighing
It gets you through Holiday Season

The craving for sorrow is endless
It lures like a velvety shroud
That shields from the world’s melancholy
When the ache begins keening out loud.

A funereal smile may be moving
And earn you a pitying hug
But Somehow you must forswear Anguish
And stop yourself craving this drug.
ljm

Several poets have told me
That I wear the wrong hat;
I should be a journalist
And let it go at that.

That I should write who-what-when-where
And put it out as news
And turn my eye to everyday
And pay the newsman’s dues.

I can’t put my quill pen down
And give up making rhyme.
I have vistas in my soul
That snare me every time.

Though I dance among the fairies
My words create brick walls
Devoid of hollyhocks and lace
When answering the calls

That urge me to take pen in hand
And share what moves my heart.
The need to see reality
Will doom me from the start.

I won’t wear a reporter’s hat
The double yous can rot.
I’ll keep searching for the elves
Whether finding them or not.
ljm

Violin with just one string
Tuning peg turned green with mold-
How can music come from that.

Flugelhorn with dented bell
And valves turned red with rust-
Who can blow a tune through that.

Radio with no antenna
Broken plastic dial won’t move-
No songs to dance the airwaves now.

Warbler with a sore throat in
A covered cage in the other room-
Can’t out sing the crows outside.,

A singer’s soul in a tuneless box
Perfect rhythm trapped in mud-
Melody in turmoil to get out.

Envy, longing, deprivation
Effort, failure, mockery-
One who should but cannot sing.

One entitled to the music
That shakes mountains,
Calms the frantic, dulls the pain.

Given only little tastes
Of what that paradise would be
If only she could sing.

Why was her voice given to
A multitude of those
Who have no need or yearning.

Why was she deprived of song-
Of that one balm to heal and mend
The every breaking of her heart.

Why was she allowed to stand
Nearby enough to feel the air
Vibrating with the sounds of it

And not allowed to make her own-
To feel the rhythm and the beat
But not take part in shaping it.

Why was her feeling for the mood
Denied the chance to paint it
On the canvas of her throat

And send it out like pretty boats
On calm reflecting waters,
Even if nobody heard but her.

Where was the vibrato hidden
That she sought and schooled for years
Sometimes there, but mostly not.

Why her mental perfect pitch
Refused to translate to her voice
And became a sorrow birthing silence.
ljm

The Iambic well is a writer’s Hell
It has captured many a poet
And often those not on their toes
Fall in before they know it

Through forty years of smiles and tears
I’ve struggled to avoid it
I’ve danced around that killing ground
Which only just annoyed it

So it sent out a water spout
That grabbed me by the ankle
I fought it off and lived to scoff
Which caused that well to rankle

I got away but to this day
I find my lines Iambic
It’s such a shame my verse is lame
I’d hoped it would be tantric.
ljm

The  purple ripples in the air
Advise you that there’s anger there
Anger that is not contained
By someone who was anger trained.

Listen to the things he shouts
He’s mad as hell without a doubt.
Here he comes towards your door
What is he so ******* for.

You didn’t barge into his lane -
To cut him off would be insane.
You only gently honked your horn
And now you get his shouting scorn.

He bangs the window of your car
And you now know he’ll go too far.
It’s clear he is a total ***
So stomp your foot down on the gas.

Leave him in a cloud of smoke
And give yourself the final joke.
Leave him shouting in the street
And tell yourself “Revenge is sweet”
ljm

When everything is monetized
And only tears are free
I think it’s time we realized
That’s not how life should be.

When you post your life on line
In hopes of earning cash
It should become a flashing sign
That it will one day crash.

Important things will fade away
In the rush to make a buck
Your only purpose every day,
To have financial luck

You’ll conjure up click-worthy memes
And pay no mind that they’re not real
That nothing’s really as it seems
As long as it’s part of the deal.

The boom will fall, that’s how it goes
And you’ll be left out in the rain
To learn what everybody knows
The lust for loot just causes pain.
                 ljm

The doors that looks could open up
Are padlocked to us now.
The passing years have turned the key
And we are locked outside.
Standing in the icy rain, still trying to get in
Where beauty generates the warmth.

The more bedraggled we appear
The more we disappear.
The paper on the wall becomes
The pattern of our lives.
We arch the brows and paint the lips
And dye the silver strands

But nothing short of neon lights
Will draw attention to our mein.
We see the glance like lighthouse-sweep
Wash over us and then away
As quickly as revolving beams
And we are left here in the dark,

Remembering the longing glance-
The interlocking of the eyes
That told us we had been approved
And freed to move about the sphere
Where all the pretty people were,
And we were added to that sum.

How bittersweet to meet the days
We knew were there but still refused to see
Encamped along our road of life
Like brigands poised to steal the last
Of shimmer from the faces that we wore
And leave us all with masks of wrinkled, sagging age.

ljm

I am a vintage model car
Sought after greatly in my time
Sleek and shiny
With fancy wheels
Capable of great speed.

Driven hard for all those years
I’m ready for an overhaul.
My engine’s powerful and good
But other things have failed.

My side-view mirror’s cracked
One door wIll not unlock
My turn signals do not work
I need some new upholstery
And a little paint would help.

However when you turn the key
I roar into impressive sound
And get you where you want to go.

No one admires me any more
I’m just a useful tool
But I remember long ago
When I was the new car on the block
And people looked as they passed by.
ljm

Your tragic family:
The little wealth
You had is gone.
No place
To call home any more.
No welcoming friends
To take you in.
There’s nothing left to do
But leave.

Leaving should be
Very easy.
Theres nothing left
For you to pack.
Nor any trunk for
You to put things in.
No need either
For a suitcase -
You’re wearing
Everything  you own.

Who can help you -
They need help too.
Who can find
An answer in the ashes
That are the tombs
Of relatives,
Cremated
With no prayers spoken.

How is it
You must fly away.
You have no passport;
You have no funds
Beyond the dollars
In your pocket
When you ran.
You can’t go to
The bank for more
The contents of the vault
Are charred.
And papers with
Your name on them
Are gone.

You cannot call.
The wires are down.
The towers melted in the blaze.
The Post Office
Is in ruins.
And no one answers
When you shout.

You have friends
And relatives
In other places
That are safe.
The only thing that you can do
Is wait
For them to come and save you.
I hear jet engines
Revving up.
Hope must not be
Let to die.
             ljm

Evil has gotten itself a gun
              The end of the world has just begun.
                              ljm

I’m trying so hard to maintain the flame
But my candle continues to flicker.
I’ve shielded it from the heaviest winds
But the breezes of sameness assail it.
I can’t see my way if it goes out completely
With darkness now poised to swoop in.
ljm

I find myself in a terrible state
Too old to be young and too young to be old

I am indeed in a terrible state
Too rich to be poor and too poor to be rich

No escaping this terrible state
Too weak to be strong and too strong to be weak

How do I deal with this terrible state
Too smart to be dumb and too dumb to be smart

I’ll just learn to live with this terrible state
Too sad to be glad and too glad to be sad
ljm

All that effort
With no real gain
Nothing to show for it
But tears and pain.

All that struggle
Against fearsome odds
Earned from the world
The briefest of nods.

All that caring-
Reaching out
No one cares
What I’m about.

Bloodying fists
Against brick walls-
I’m ready to answer
But no one calls.
          ljm

She smiles with eyes as dead as stone
And hates the work she does so very well,
And the ungrateful mob she does for.

She speaks in friendly, helpful tones
To mask the scream that dances just below her throat
And searches for the moment of escape into the din

She’s always there, as sure as there’s a sunrise.
Though her spirit sails on distant, foreign seas
Her feet are sunk in work-day sludge that traps her here.

Though she longs for clean and simple
Her duties bury her in convoluted mire.
She’s given up trying to scrub it all away.

A million little stabs have wounded her
Beyond the hope of graceful ending
To a life pulled down by circumstance and pain.

With no hope of stars in azure skies at dawning
The light that once shown from her eyes fades out
And her smile becomes an exercise in muscle stretching.

She does what she’s expected to with weariness
That goes beyond arthritic joints and too long hours.
She feeds the wolf and wishes it were not so.

But wish in one hand - spit in one
Her mother often said, and see which one is filled up first.
She always listened to her mom, alas.

And so she trudges slowly on.
She doesn’t know what else to do.
Another day to stumble through
And no tomorrow in her soul.
               ljm

Ebony birds with damaged wings
Fling themselves
Towards the darkened clouds
And find no draft to lift them.
Screeching in despairing cries
They slowly circle back to earth.

Second verse of same sad song
Echoes and reminders catch the light.
Unexpected findings ring the bell
That calls to life the waterfall.
Help is proffered by empty hands
To heartstrings that no longer tug.

And the clock goes round and round
And the Sun goes up and down
And the Moon grows somehow dim
On a path that only circles back
Into a room that has no door.
I’m home again, it seems.
ljm

Like all the rest I say
I am not an addict
I can stop this any time.

I do it just for fun
And relaxation.
I can stop this any time.

But my life is poisonous
And this is the antidote
Still, I can stop this any time.

Tomorrow I will prove
That what I say is true-
That I can stop this any time.

I’ll pack myself onto a plane
And exit to a 4-wheeled cell
That forces me to stop right now.

How will I fare,
Deprived of that which
Is impossible to stop?

I’ll tough it out Cold Turkey
And find a way to come back here
For I don’t aim to stop this any time soon.
ljm

Springtime rain pays no attention
To everything that might get wet.
Yes, it stresses comprehension.
Springtime rain pays no attention
Rain creates a new dimension
And gets most everyone upset.
Springtime rain pays no attention
To everything that might get wet.
ljm

The ill-est of all winds has started blowing,
And my little pile of sand begins to disappear.
I swept it up so carefully, between
The rocks and all the hardest places,
I protected it from dogs and little children,
Guarded it against the rain and snow.

I never counted on the wind increasing.
Always just a zephyr, it brought butterflies
And the scent of Jasmine in the summer,
And cooled a sweaty brow while playing.
I didn’t notice as the wind speed grew,
A little at a time, until it was too late.

Now the sighing’s turned into a howl
That cannot be ignored or quelled.
It whips around the windbreaks I put up
And pushes on all objects in its way.
I race to cover up my sand pile
But I lack a blanket big enough.

I fling myself across to hold it down
But I don’t have sufficient hands or fingers,
And I see my precious, swirling grains
Begin to drift away into the cracks
And crevices of all those hardest places
Where I can never sweep them out again.

Picking up my tattered blanket at a lull
There is nothing left beneath but shiny rock.
The only sand, a few grains found
Embedded in the pattern of the weave.
I wrap myself up tight in it
And stumble out into the coming storm.
ljm

She sent three thousand mother’s daughters
Up the Church aisle to be married
But the Wedding Director’s only daughter
Slinked off to Vegas and was married by Elvis.
ljm

Full moon veiled in a silken mist
Outline dim and wan
Mocking the hour when last we kissed
Now that love has gone.
ljm

I PLAN TO DIE AT AGE 45
NO MATTER HOW MANY YEARS I’VE LIVED
-stolen

In this foreign, hostile land
Who will mourn me when I die.
In this place where no one knows my face
Who will lay a flower on my bier.
Who will say my name with tear stained eyes
And mark their journal with this date.

In this place I didn’t want to be
Who will notice when I’m gone
And feel the hollow left behind.
Who will long to see my smile
And know they never will again.
Who will cry for me here when I’m gone.
    ljm

1.  The only escape from this nightmare is death
     But that’s not escape - it’s nothing but a blackout.
     The only hope left flickers and dies
     Like an ill-tended summer campfire
     As the lucky numbers refuse to compute,
     And all that’s left is sand and sun     
     That scorches all attempts to find a way
     To make accommodations to the heat.

      Safe for now inside a fragile stucco igloo,
      What will happen when the statement comes
      That says we can’t afford the ice
      That’s needed to stave off the burn,
      And there’s no shady place to go and hide.
      With no escape to dream filled sleep
      There’s only counting minutes on a clock that                                                          never  moves.                             
                                                                ­                                    
2.   The ragged sleeve is not caught up at night
      And the road ends at a chasm of despair.
      The winds and tides are out of sync
      And morning comes at midnight.
      Writhing in the tangled sheets, I’m
      Thinking thoughts with no way out,
      Of what was always bound to come,
      Riding on another bad decision.

3.   Death will not lure me this night -
      Too cruel to leave him here alone
      Without the necessary tools to live
      And find a road that leads to hope.
      If only slumber was my friend
      And I was not out counting stars
      When it’s too dark to find my way
      And all the nearby world is snoring.

4.   Huddled in a corner with a pen
      The paper blots up tears and ink
      And offers no hope of surcease
      To seeds of panic poised to grow.
      If only a little rain would fall.

ljm

Feral winds blow through my mind
Creating mists I can’t see through
The road leaps up to trip my feet.
And when I stumble, all the pieces
That are me, get shaken up
And settle in a different way.

Flailing arms at foes I cannot see
I battle memes that have no name
And promise to report me to the boss
Who somehow didn’t turn out to be me,
And I am left to put my time card in the slot
Which sets the bells of checkmate ringing loudly.

Promises that were not made
Are broken in the headlong rush
To be the first one up the steps to no-place
Where the doorknobs all are putty
And the Sandwich man says
Have one more.  And this one isn’t poison.

The calendar has learned to dance
And practices a fox trot as
The pages dip, then glide away
And soon it is the next decade,
But I don’t have the taxi fare
And guess I’ll never get there.

I think I’ll never see one hundred.
That’s my fondest wish from childhood
But it reads backwards in the mirror
And the wind keeps blowing shut the door.
I saved my pennies for the ticket
But I’ll never get to see the movie.

Here I am with ball and jacks
And no one knows what they are for
I probably should pick them up
But that would mean I’m going home.
The streetlights haven’t come on yet
So I can stay and play some more.
           ljm

On a front-row-center throne
The Would-be King relaxes.
             Besides him rests his Lady-Queen
             In tsunamis of green satin.

He’s enjoying all the accolades
In the Hallowed Halls of drama
Surrounding their appearance,
                         Where the monkey trio entertains
    And fashion marches to and fro
    Clutching heavy bits of tinsel.

All is merriment and joy
Until the Jester makes a jape
   That earns a queenly frown
   Which stirs the King to wipe his smile
And stalk onto the dais
         Where he
                         slaps
   the Jester on his cheek,
  And wearing traces of a smirk
Marches back down to his throne.

The Jester lofts a lame response
Into a sea of stunning silence
      Then the air turns shades of Royal blue
                              And American TVs go deaf
                                               For thirty-seven                                                 ­                                     seconds
While across the seas the
  Audience enjoys the
    Braying of a *******.

Believing he’s impervious
Or maybe he is Sampson
         The King pulls down the ancient walls
                   Of cherished film tradition
Reducing what was dignified
           To a rank back alley rumble
Then later makes a fake obeisance
Awash with phony tears and snot.

                   All hail the King of Hollywood
   They should take back his golden prize
        To penalize his hubris -
                And let him know rules still apply.
And cause some real tears in his eyes.
           ljm

He struggled into an impeccable new tuxedo in order to make an impeccable impression on the judges as he attends the banquet that will award him a check and a gold medal for his impeccable manners at the etiquette Olympics
ljm

I came in the very first
In the race to golden treasures
And was told I had no entry form
And only those who paid that fee
Could carry off the trophy.
            ljm

Footprints in mud or sand don't last.
They fade with time and tide.
Footprints on the heart are
Concrete and somehow abide.
                       ljm

Where have the daily poems gone?  
That’s how I start my day, and I miss them.
June 27 was the last date one showed on my Mac.  
Was nothing worthy in the ensuing week?  
Is Eliot unwell?  Who chooses the Dailies?
Is that person also unwell.
Does anybody know anything.
Somebody tell me something.
                        ljm

On this day of gratitude and thanks giving,
I want to say that I'm insanely grateful for
Hello Poetry and all the poets who share it
with me.  Knowing I can write my feelings
and emotions and share them with other
like-minded souls has been an almost religious 
 blessing in my life.  And I want to thank you
all, each and every one of you.
And wish you a very
                         HAPPY  THANKSGIVING

Writhing sea of dancing faces
Roiled by electric currents
From a storm that I can’t see-
No high, no low, no ebbing
Just tumaltism from
One Sean cut to another.
In the middle is a wooden box
Painted big and black and square.
On it is a Nereid
Arms out flung, long red hair flying
Turning in the basting of the spotlights
So willow-thin above the starfish in the tide pools.
Powered by the lack of sun
She floats her rhythms
On the breakers
And becomes a beacon
For lost eyes and hopeless dreams.

How I wish I was her sister
Cousin or best friend.
How I’d love to fusion with her
Show her where she got her licks.
But I hold back- I don’t dare it
My time was yesterday
Today is hers alone
I must be jetsam on the shore
So sad that my tide’s moving out as
Hers is rolling in.

If I could only be her peer
Instead of Sea Waif’s mother.
ljm

The Ferris Wheel is slowing down
  The ride is almost over
    The zooming up was thrilling
      The view from there exciting
        The downward swing was also fun
          Because it turned to rise again.

                                  It seemed the ride would last forever
                              But we knew that wasn’t true
                          We just refused to think about it
                      Til slowing motion made it clear
                  The ride was coming to an end
              And it would very soon be time
           To loose the seat belt and get off
        And walk amongst the land-bound
    Remembering the view from high
While heading for the Tilt-A-Whirl.
             ljm

A generation never knew
The thrall Diana wove about her.
Never felt the shimmered glow
That radiated from her.

Her memory must be kept alive
For generations yet to come.
No history book could do the job
As well as looking into those blue eyes

She wasn’t just a lovely face
Dressed in stunning fashions.
The passing years must not forget
The monumental good she did.

It’s trite to dab our eyes and say
She made the world a better place.
But there was not a single moment
When that fact was proved untrue.

She never got to write the coda to her song -
That was taken from her by a car crash
Wrapped in who-killed-Kennedy confusion,
Leaving us to never know the answer.

Those little boys are worthy men
And better than a monument.
She did her job - perhaps too well -
And the whole world paid the price for it.

Meanwhile Slimy ******* and his ***** eat cake.
                 ljm

Words are threads of many colors.
That can be woven into something
Beautiful and strong.
I said that to Melan of Innocence once
And it’s true.
She is a weaver of gossamer truth.
Warp dipped in LOVE and then woven
Through heartwarming weft
To form fabric both beautiful and
Astoundingly strong.
ljm