Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The sunlight awakens us as dawn arrives,
in gentle silence glowing;
We yawn and smile our sleepy smiles,
with joy and wonder showing.

Another day to pass the time,
in lazy summer's shade;
To sit and lounge on the front porch,
with crisp iced tea and lemonade.

The blooming florals permeate the air,
with sweet and scented perfume;
We clip rosebuds for the dining table,
oh, how their beauty lights up the room !

Serene and lovely is our summer's day,
as we share in quiet thoughts;
While memories fill our peaceful hearts,
of our years together--never forgotten.
Craving essences of inner thoughts
toward picturesque portraits,
to be created by soulful words--
The Artist lets emotions run rampant
through mystical sounds and touches'
A heartfelt design from a whirling frenzy
of mindful notions,
framed into a mosaic which carries this message:
"As long as life perseveres,
there will be fables following us
leading us out of the darkness."
My life is a culmination of
a series of miraculous events;
Touched by an angel at birth,
and carried through days of delight;
Where the smell of moist lilacs hangs
in the misty air like clouds of the past,
and wonders of the future;
And the sun beats readily upon the
crystal glass from which I peer,
My roaming eyes examining the magic of
everyday moments, allowing my soul to thrive;
Connecting all that's good in the world,
to rise and comfort me in everlasting glow;
As always, with deep gratitude and amazement.
The lawn is covered in early spring's delight,
by little floral buds of golden hue;
As children we thought they were magical,
not the yellow weeds which can conquer the view.

We'd pick them slowly till our fingers were sore,
and put them together in tiny bunches;
Then bring them to Mom as a heartfelt gift,
and Oh, how she'd fuss while serving us lunch !

They'd sit in the midst of our kitchen table,
as we watched adoringly when eating sweets,
Mother's face would shine like a new penny,
while she doled out our 'after luncheon' treats.

Back into the yard we'd soon run and play,
discovering a small patch of purple violets;
And gathering them gently into our hands,
we'd run to Mom as she came down the steps.

One doesn't need money to please those we love,
a simple gesture of kindness is always the best;
For what is truly beautiful in our short lives,
is what we hold dear in our memory's "treasure chest" !
Growing in the side-yard of our house in Villa Park,
were mint leaves basking in the summer sun--
Sitting in the kitchen with windows opened wide,
the ruffled curtains fluttering in the warm breeze--
I could taste the scented air as I drank my lemonade,
poured from my grandmother Mary's heavy glass pitcher,
artfully embossed with floral etchings.

A porcelain cookie jar shaped like a happy homemaker,
sat quaintly in the corner of our green kitchen counter--
The cotton tablecloth swirled with bright colored birds,
partially shaded by the lowering of the evening sun.
Kneeling at the window I saw a bounty of honeysuckles,
which enhanced the sweetness of summer's breath.

Mom would dish out bowls of butter-almond ice cream,
a delicious treat brought earlier by her cousin Jean--
And often we'd play Scrabble long into the night,
(Mom was the brightest of us all, a winner in every way);
then we'd head outside toward the backyard pool
To watch lightning bugs flitting in delight around
our giant maple tree, catching a few as they floated past us.

Later, from my room, I'd hear the humming of the pool's filter,
and Daddy's reassuring voice practically in rhythm with the sound--
My younger siblings would grab hold of me as we chased our
playful pup down the stairs and onto the front porch--
There, we sat in the twilight watching Dad survey the moon,
with Mom commenting on the twinkling stars above--
And we knew, wholeheartedly, that love surrounded us,
before bedtime arrived and engulfed us in peaceful sleep.
To my dear parents, who provided a home filled with comfort, safety, and profound love--I'm forever grateful !
Mounted high upon his mahogany desk,
those papers lined with embellished words;
Disguised with false echoes of majesty,
which tell the tales of fire and swords.

Forgetting all but one parable designed,
to open up a bleeding heart's wounds;
His inspired thoughts would float away,
in dubious flights of sights and sounds.

While caressing the pages so boldly grasped,
reminding him that words could hold the key;
To rescue the world and solve its weariness,
if only his heart would embrace validity.

Now struggling through these manuscripts,
with haunting visions of malice and grief;
His life torn apart from the wanton spirits,
while flowing cautiously toward a sense of relief.

Since living is heaven's gift to us all,
not just a plaything to scorn and toss;
We must carry the torch to higher ground,
despite our sacrifice and inevitable loss.
Barren branches reach toward the steel-gray sky,
the air whistles through them as they sway;
Touching each other with a crackling sound,
as moaning calls of winter birds obey.

With each move their tender limbs try,
to hold themselves up with honor;
Yet as gusts snap twigs to solid ground,
this scene appears to us in horror.

Why now is Nature so bold and brave,
while January's resting and nesting starts ?
Its darkness looms with grave concerns,
for every lonesome and solitary heart.

And the whirling frost will paint its pictures,
along the windowsills each night;
The once fiery hearth seems weary and weak,
as the numbing cold begins to bite.

It was quite different when we lived down South,
which seems like years ago;
But now we stumble over icy hills,
and plow through fields of snow.

While the holidays pass with mirth and cheer,
our souls become unsettled;
Knowing that God has future plans,
that would surely test our mettle.

The strong survive the wicked winds,
the remaining folks just fade away;
Yet when we hold each others' hands,
our misery blows far astray.

Remember the elders on the farm,
telling stories of a reckless season;
Their wit and wisdom brightened our world,
for them--life's challenges had their reasons.

Huddled together in woolen shawls,
with my loving family close at hand;
I pray to the Lord that we all survive,
this bleak and brittle land.
Inspired by the autobiographical accounts of American author
Laura Ingalls Wilder, through her series of LITTLE HOUSE books.
Next page