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My mother is a poem
A haiku for sure I say
A gift from heaven.

She nurtured my life    
like flower she’ll always be    
blossoming with light  

Mother Doris rocks
Sharing wisdom at every age        
Teaching how to be

Mom inspired me.
though sometimes we fought in life
I love her so much

She carried my soul
helping me grow and survive
helping me love self.

With memory gone
doesn't matter love is strong  
love weaves love in smiles.
I am afraid that your fingers
Would grasp mine
In the precise way
That his used to

And I am scared
That the inflection in your voice
Will resonate in my brain
As all the same

But, to tell you the truth
I don't want you to be him
I don't want to do the same things
With you that I did with him
After all, it never worked out
I'm just scared this won't either
And I'm scared that you're not the right one

What changed in those days?
The time we spent together
Was it the look in your eyes or the weather?
The heat of summer and long conversation?
Out until early morning
Discussing the way we both like
Sitting in cars during rainstorms
Being immersed by the water
Sitting silently in that moment
Letting the world fold around us

Yet it terrifies me to think that you'll be too close
I don't want to let you in
Subconsciously I have shut down my heart
You're knocking ever so patiently
I just have turned on a lamp
Feigning hospitality
When all I feel is hostility
Because I don't know how to remove the deadbolt
When you bring your hands to my heart
And I feel the thumping in my chest

I want to invite you in
To have a cup of coffee
Just to meet you halfway
To take a chance on something
It may be good
Or it may be devastating
So much pain
I do not know what to do with it all
The tears keep falling
My wounds are fresh and anew
My heart still raw from inner agony
So many whys and questions
Too many to name at present
All I can feel is pain
Watching others around me
Laugh without a care
Oh, how unfair it is!
Struggling in the pit of sorrows
And the ***** of daily pain
Weak, bruised, broken
I stand with trembling knees
A humble poetess writing poetry
To help ease the torture inside
Reading to calm herself...
Words uttered from scarred lips
So much pain and nothing to do with it all
Can I ever feel happy again?
So much hardships and stress
Such makes up the fragments of my life
Broken pieces of china
When will joy ever come to me?
Will I ever smile again?
There are times when happiness comes
Fleeting like the grains of sand
My tears fall from my miserable blue eyes
Behind them lies the life of a broken girl
Such is the story of my life

Felt Really Depressed/Down Tonight...
So I Wrote This...It Is A Very Cathartic Poem
And Much Unlike My Usually Happy Writings...
But *Sigh* I Cannot Help It...
What With The Death Of My Aunt Joy
My Life Has Been Full Of Deep Dark Shadows...
The Same Thing Can Be Said For The Rest Of My Family!!! ~~~~~~<3
Hope You Enjoy This Poem Anyway
Despite It Been Very Depressing And Morbid!!! ~~~~~<3
I stand 'neath wintered sky

And mock by my life

Winged Goddesses.

Bolts from on high,

Blue crackling death,

Thrown with careless hand

Have not felled me.

Surrounded by their circling  fury

I smile

My body is battered

But my arrow is true.

Black  and fleet

Their wings churn the sky.

They point now  to one of their own

I have winged a Valkyrie
Sometimes, when you have cheated death as many times as I have, You feel a little cocky. This was one of those times.
The poet is not a writer,
though she uses words,
the difference lies in the sentiment,
when he writes a book,
he writes it in order to educate and entertain,
when she writes poetry,
there is a fleck of the unseen,
there is a dream-like quality to the poem,
chaotic rhythm trying to make sense of the madness,
a maddening landscape as surreal and cerebral as Eloheim,
and still the poet persists,
but it is for this reason that understanding breaks down,
and while the poem is often misunderstood,
still she writes for others,
fighting desperately for a cure,
a cancer that all things dendritic cannot touch,
a wound that runs unabated through culture and the human imagination alike,
she writes poetry for future generations,
for her children to read,
leaving the fire lit aflame in the hearts of the next generation,
but each generation fewer and fewer take up the charge,
fighting the good fight is obsolete,
and so it is for the few to tacitly and tactically,
with a tactile touch,
fix the accumulation of those who came before.

I am not a poet,
I do not write for the greater good,
I write for myself,
for the well-being of the being in my head,
for the scrapping in the derelict corners of my mind,
grey matter splattered on false sentiments,
lies and truths mingled betwixt cortex and stem,
a tree burgeoning upward,
and so I do not write for you,
but for myself,
for I am no poet,
lost in rasping of my own words,
in tranquility I fester,
for I owe you nothing,
and from beneath that pretense,
I hang.

I would say that the death of the poet,
is the death of language,
though art fell victim long ago,
and so I find solace in its falling leaves.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
I sought Him in temples where anthems swell
Stained glass windows and polished sermons suave;
Yet here I knew He did not dwell,
While poor child of dust creeps to his grave.

I sought Him in churches rustic and plain
Eager to drown my heartfelt sorrow,
These mockery so futile and vain
As I searched for a brighter morrow.

In meadow alone, a breeze touched my face
Whispering of days bygone, yet still dear
When life flowed at a leisurely pace
And I felt His presence - O! so near!

Bittersweet weeping of the mourning dove
Awakens me to sad pleading eyes
Shattering my heart with vials of love.
Forsaken man and beast hold God's disguise.

I see Him in each rippling blade of grass
When dew of morn glistens with His tears.
In moaning of wind I hear Him pass
Through aromatic pines and lose all fears.

God does not dwell in temples made with hand,
But speaks to us through each soughing pine.
Proud wealthiest mansions o'er all the land
Mocked by His majestic Hand divine.

© Hilda July 31, 2013.
 Aug 2013 Daniel Jay Mc Shane
The cool breezes stir
among the tallest fir trees...
dappled sunlight shines.
 Jun 2012 Daniel Jay Mc Shane
I wish you were a song in my head
So I could play you when I want,
Stop you when I want,
Stop wanting you when you play
Me like a song in your head

— The End —