Here comes the night life.
Yellow lights spill all over main street,
But the dim, blue sky takes its sweet time to leave.

Hands delicately scale a piano
as the drum leads in it's sporadic fills.
The trumpets burst and pop
while a saxophone glides softly.

The people sit and chat
While their cups are emitting swirling steams.
The faces brightly lit
by store windows and neon open signs.

The works that are spoken,
and meant to fix the broken,
are launched into a crowd.

Words upon heart,
but I’m drifting apart,
from an auditorium chair.

They say every verse that is read
goes in and out my head,
and I feel a dearth of knowledge.

But found by the trees,
are my words of ease,
spoken straight from His mouth.

A blue sky set before me,
the meadow of perfect grass,
I sit and wallow in a sweet wisdom.

My poems hide in my morning cup of coffee.
In good hair days.
In nights without homework.
In the little victories of life.

My poems hide in board games while camping.

My poems hide in falling of a horse, but getting back on.

My poems hide in crazy and untraditional habits.
In rearranging and organizing my bedroom.
In summer trips to the emergency room.
In the dents, bruises, and scars that I seem to collect.

My poems hide in compliments from strangers.

My poems hide in the eyes of animals who have grown up alongside of me.

My poems hide in moments spent with my best friends.
In sleepovers in the motorhome outside my house.
In Tulip Time parades twirling my baton.

My poems hide in the embrace of a long-distance friend.

My poems hide in my parents, and in the times they are proud of me.

My poems hide in the memories I’ve made.
In mission trips where 9-Square and hacky-sack are the main pastimes.
In seashell hunting on a clean, white beach.
In being a queen in the eighth grade show.

My poems hide in the trips that I take.
In the adventures I have in ordinary settings.
In the twenty four hour ride to Florida.
In the states I have yet to visit.

My poems hide in my relationship with God.

My poems hide in all the beautiful, trivial things around me.

My poems are constantly hiding, waiting, begging to be discovered.

The wisdom is held tightly,
swaddled in opinion.
The trains of though race,
with a hot coal that burns.

Burns and pounds
and the weapon's locked away.
Writhing and screaming,
but a silence counts the seconds on the clock.

Clock's that move quickly,
but slowly runs the time.
The gunpowder finds the match:
Smithereens of impressions scattered on the floor.

almost like a ruler, these help make
this one big thing, a –––––
these rulers have no marks from men
but only ones from He
little younglings coalesce in these
rulers which forms a ––––––
as the day leaves; season changes
the colors part from thee
and when all gone another thing
coats the beautiful –––––
stuff like sugar and almost as
plentiful as the sea

Silence,
thoughtful silence,
what has everybody just read?
murmur,
quiet murmur,
when everybody starts thinking,
talking,
finally talking,
and sadly everybody returns to their lives.

A written word is the choicest of relics,
It is something at once more intimate with us,
And more universal than any other work of art,
Just as books are the treasured wealth of the world,

I wanted to live deliberately,
So I went to the woods,
And I found it wholesome to be alone there,
For we need the tonic of wildness,

A single gentle rain,
Makes the grass many shades greener,
So our prospects brighten,
On the influx of better thoughts,

We should be blessed if we lived in the present always,
And took advantage of every accident that befell us.