To paint with passion a tapestry,
The colors must be bright and free,
The scene must show a wide array,
Of sunny times and cloudy days.

The strokes it takes to satisfy,
The toughest critic's evil eye,
Takes time and patience now to make,
And hours upon hours it surely takes.

The beauty's in the paint you show,
The message for the world to know,
That different strokes can mystify,
And capture our hearts and make us cry.

The final product for all to see,
Includes the likes of you and me,
And every person from everywhere,
Appreciates our beauty and truly cares.

To paint a tapestry takes skill,
A sense of purpose and iron will,
A dream of beauty and some reality,
Splashed on a canvas for all to see.

----------------------------------------------------------------­----------------

Cold the air in morning rain,
Dull the grass and houses plain,
Branches sway in trees so bare,
Little does the world so care.
Clouded gray so clouds go by,
Flowers hide with lonely cries,
Dandelions in frozen earth,
Wait for spring and for their birth.
Snow like slush upon our eyes,
Melts so ***** with no disguise,
Water frozen on ponds so lost,
Winter takes a heavy cost.
Dandelions soon will grace,
With color bright upon this place,
While heat and time renew the earth,
The pretty weeds will prove their worth.

White, crunchy snow,
Blanketing the prairie,
Wind whistling off darkened hills
Causing tree branches to sway,
Like some contorted dancer
Covered in the glistening ice.
An occasional dog, or wolf,
Howling hard, crying like
Some forlorned sailor lost,
Sick and silent in their misery,
Shivering helplessly in sub-zero torment.
No house for miles, starry night,
The sky lit up like a Christmas tree,
Moon so big and bright and orange,
You could touch it, pulling it to earth
In one full swoop it crashes down.
No birds singing melodious tunes,
No cows or bison wandering aimlessly.

Three-storied house with porch and swing,
Yard with some flowers in morning sing,
Trees with broad branches heavy with leaf,
Shadowed the air with some darkened relief.
Boxes on boxes filled memories so dear,
Tucked away neatly so no one could hear,
All of those memories speaking out loud,
High overhead comes the billowing cloud.
Chasing each other so wildly in light,
Laughing and singing our youth so delight,
Beautiful dreamers so endlessly longing,
Radio blaring those wonderful songing.
Wishing this moment in time standing still,
Love everlasting in voids we could feel,
All was so magical dancing and living,
You made the moment worth sharing and giving.

The curtain drops upon the stage,
Another actor will become of age,
Another tragedy will engulf two lovers,
While critics hide beneath their covers.
A script creates a world of wonder,
Where people love and often plunder,
Where lives are woven like a faded rug,
This play we see gives hearts a tug.
The plot and magic are melted thus,
Where who's the hero and who's to trust,
Are shown in scenes like some melodrama,
Played out in the open this panorama.
The curtain calls and final farewells,
Bring tears of joy who can we tell,
About this play that touched our souls,
Is centuries long and centuries old.

Words sometime flow,
Other times so slow,
Putting words so right,
Takes the entire night.
When words never come,
I really feel so dumb,
To have an empty page,
Fills me with crazy rage.
At times I'm lost in prose,
I can not smell the rose,
When will I have the time,
What happened to the rhymes?
Sometimes they play,
The words do not delay,
I put them on a page,
I feel like such a sage.
This poetry is hard,
I think I'll mow the yard.

Sometimes, in the weary hours
of the morning, when the silence
is all around me, I hear her voice
so faintly calling me in her most
desperate voice--I have no choice,
but to follow where she calls me;
Occasionally, when I try to rest
my heavy head upon my pillow on
my bed, she comes to me in the most
haunting dream, filling me with a
chill and thrill I can not understand,
except in the most bizarre trance;
She is gone, this five years past
and laid so finally far under grass,
But I can feel her spirit walking
in the garden slowly by the fountain
lake; I can not forget her, nor ever
forsake, her dear,sweet loving memory.
I hear her now, and I must go.