The aisle never seemed so long as when I watched her walking toward me.

Her smile never seemed so bright as when her eyes were raining tears of joy.  

And as she floated forward as though she were on a cloud,

My own mind could not fathom whether she were an angel or a snowflake.

A pixie or a swan.
Orange Rose Nov 9
When Romeo chose poison,
He chose to die asleep,
And painlessly join Juliet.
Their promise still to keep.

When Juliet chose to follow him,
A dagger in her breast,
Embrace could never feel so sweet,
As Death's gentle arrest.

The Reaper kissed them kindly,
And took them by the hand,
And led them far away from here,
To find a better land.

They left us here to ponder,
Faces white as winter snow,
Why lovers couldn't live to tell,
The tale of long ago.
Orange Rose Oct 1
The world outside is calm and still,
But inside there is chaos.
The wind awakens raging seas,
Where many lives are lost.

And yet the sun is shining bright,
Though no warmth reaches through.
It stretches through the empty eye,
And lights the angry blue.

But eyes do not stay open long.
They close when light is gone,
And even with approach of dawn,
The storm is raging on.
Orange Rose Sep 24
I have not lived a-hundred years.
There is much I've yet to see,
And days which I have yet to live.
I'm not yet who I'm meant to be.

The people who I'll one day love,
Have yet to see my face.
The time will come for them to make,
The memories I cannot replace.

Perhaps I'll have a family,
Or, Maybe I'll remain alone,
If one day I should serve the time,
For sins that I can not atone.

Yet one thing is for certain.
It's the only truth I trust;
Just like the words upon a page,
I'll one day fade to dust.
Orange Rose Sep 13
A word is simply letters
And letters simply lines
To help convey the many thoughts,
Which tangle in our minds.

And yet somehow we struggle,
To find what's right to say.
With all the words we've seen or heard,
Our thoughts still slip away.

We use our words as paintings.
We use our words as masks,
To hide from those who see too much.
We hide from what they ask.

When thoughts don't flow with words,
They tumble from our eyes.
We wipe them in frustration,
For revealing our disguise.

To some our words are power.
To others, they are shame.
To me they are a paintbrush,
No painting is the same.

To you they may be weapons,
Or as gentle as the dawn,
But no matter what you think of them,
The words will carry on.
Orange Rose Aug 23
Words have always come to me,
As easy as the air I breathe,
And now they turn their heads and flee,
So I can't write my poetry.

Don't ask me to write pretty words,
They're gone as far as I'm concerned,
They've flown away like little birds,
And now there's nothing to be heard.

I've used up every single rhyme,
A new hobby would be sublime,
I'm sick of always keeping time,
Like breaking it would be a crime.

But even when I try to write,
It seems my flowing thoughts are tight,
The silence gives me quite a fright,
Like darkness in the dead of night.

It's time to say goodbye to day,
So it's good the words have gone away,
I didn't want them anyway.
It's good they didn't want to stay.

Those words have never done me good,
Or gave me solace like they should,
I wonder if they ever could.
Perhaps I have misunderstood.

But anyway the point is made.
I can't keep up with this facade.
The race is done, the game is played,
And now my poems have to fade.

So now my life is up to fate,
To leave you this is what I hate,
And one last poem would be great.
To say goodbye and then- oh wait...

Have I been rhyming all along?
Did I really write another song?
I thought my words had said "so long,"
Now they've come back to prove me wrong.
Orange Rose Aug 19
I hear a song which colors Autumn.
It sings Creation's symphony,
Of days long past, or still to be,
Of what the Earth is to become.

It moves the air and paints the skies.
The waves crash with crescendos,
And with its trumpets, wind does blow.
The cellos play.  The eagle flies.

With violins the flowers bloom.
With piccolos the sparrow calls.
Like cotton snow, the music falls.
The drums begin. The mountains loom.

And when it seems the song will end,
In Winter's white and icy chill,
When all the world is calm and still,
The trumpets will begin again.
inspired by Vivaldi
Next page