Golden pulse grew on the shore,
Ferns along the hill,
And the red cliff roses bore
Bees to drink their fill;

Bees that from the meadows bring
Wine of melilot,
Honey-sups on golden wing
To the garden grot.

But to me, neglected flower,
Phaon will not see,
Passion brings no crowning hour,
Honey nor the bee.

Lights,camera....
Watching people
People watching
Letting them pass
instead of acknowledging our connection
there's Timothy, we're in the same class ,
he doesn't know, but I think it's adorable
that he always forgets his calculator and asks for mine.
there's Lianne, we went to high school together, but now
we pretend we've never met,
turning our heads at the just the right angle,
so our eyes won't ever pass by each other, god forbid.
Clean slate, this college is.
Lights, camera...yet no action.
Here's Ronda. I want to tell her how beautiful she is
So she believes in herself.
But I just sit here.
People watching.
College campuses have a knack
of giving us windows to stare out of,
but no doors to lead us where we want to go.

She stepped through the sand
tall sea grass grazed her pale legs
moonlight illuminated her white face
her blue eyes, the color of
a lake frozen over
her hair, black and dead
the sea called to her
it beckoned with rolling thunder
and jagged electricity
her toes reached the water
the ocean reared excitedly
goosebumps rose on every inch of her skin
raindrops bounced off the water
the water, now up to her knees
climbing higher, eager, by the inch
with every step she took
until it engulfed her entire body
cold, deep and black
it forced its way into her lungs
she smiled and the current
rocked her like a humming mother
until she felt herself fade away
until she was gone.
the ocean gently laid the body
on the beach
her dead eyes stared into
the starry night
the gentle smile forever played
on her pale lips

We speak to put the world to rights,
We speak to make it clear.
We speak to read our thoughts aloud,
We speak to tell our fears.

We speak when we are spoken to,
We speak to be forgiven.
But if we could no longer speak,
Then we would have to listen.

She’s the product of some artist, full of joy right from birth,
The loveliest of all smiling creatures, put here on earth.
A stunning angel came to love me, the canvas on my heart she fills,
I gaze at her works with amazement, and it gives me chills.
My mind has a full gallery of her, the palette vibrant and bold.
I’m the one chosen to record her spirit, given a treasure to hold.
Masterpieces of life and love, I’m filled with awe and ardor
I collect her works; a private collection, not for sale or barter.