This to celebrate those who
Swallow pride and shed own
Honour in the name of
World Peace.

Enemy hands shaking each other.
This to celebrate each helping
Stranger preventing robbery or
**** in a dark alley.

Care is the strongest defence.
This to celebrate the people who
Know the value of smiles and a
Friendly touch.

Flames that warm an entire room.
The ones who calm us down. This
To celebrate the old souls of the world,
The ones who say

You before me. Those whose
Turn is an always voluntary last.
The uninsultables.
The unstubborn ones.

The ones who shield the weakest,
Who place themselves on top of
Grenades or dive between bullets
And innocent hearts.

This to celebrate their brush strokes of
True colour on the bleak canvas
Of these dark and selfish
Times.

You are my gods.
I lay my whole person before you.
I bow unto you, prophets of the
Potential Paradise of Planet Earth.

The Cumaean Sibyl was the priestess presiding over the Apollonian oracle at Cumae, a Greek colony located near Naples, Italy. The word sibyl comes (via Latin) from the ancient Greek word sibylla, meaning prophetess. (Wikipedia)


Songs of prophecy on oaken leaves
Unread; unclaimed; unrequested
Fly from out either of the many entrances
To her cave chambers.

She doesn't mind. Poet or prophet, the
Wind has hands greater than human;  
Words without willing ears wrestle away
Without struggle.

Only they and the wind see the beauty
Of it. She? She doesn't mind.
Guide to the Underworld, she has greater
Things to meditate on than

The Infants of the Universe
In their insignificant sandboxes.
Here; more poetry. Come who may,
To read.*

Who may.
Apollo's twisted payment for her
Pleasures: As many years of life as grains
Of sand in her hand.

But she forgot to ask for youth.
After a thousand years, only her voice is
Left, whispering: Children, all will
Be well. It already is.

It already is.

The last specks of snow on the
Fields disappeared with the parting
Of the clouds.

Now blue, the skies smile
Upon everything.
I spoke to a friend today.

The birds keep picking at the
Sunflower seeds I put out by
My window.

I spoke to a friend today.
Now my windows are eyes to my
Soul as I watch mud and dead

Grass kiss the sun back with nothing
But themselves. This spring, as every.
We are not beautiful yet.

But we love you for making us
That; green and alive. Spring is
Spring to everything.

Spring to everything, and not only  
The words of my friend's
Linger, but the feeling does too; that

When all is as beautiful as this,
I'm not the only one
Seeing it.