A smile for a while
A grin for a time
A laugh, one chuckle
No money for a rhyme-----
D
O
W
N
B
  E
L
  O
W
A poet goes
Hoping to get just one
View---- a poet is born
By the millisecond
A window of
opportune.
Some poets dream
Of Mars
Some the stars, sun and moon.
Some are rich and some are poor-----
Some have houses
Yet no money for a bedroom door
Some poets write with pens
Others write with their teeth,
Other poet's write with pain and excite
Some poets write rapping streets
Some poets write of amor, some write of drug use
Of their future's in store.
Some poets write for fun and play
Some write of their deaths
Some in June and may
Some poet's change their lives
As others write sweet lullaby's
Some poets are me and you
The someone's are somebody's
That someone is you.

She considerately held a smile
and strained to conceal the strain
of politeness,
asking correct questions
with an ear of patience
conveying interest
to spare feelings from being hurt.
Though I held a mask
of being fooled by her falseness
we knew we knew
and yet the charade continued.
I admire her for that.

After the swatches of reds, oranges, and browns blend into the ground
After the trees have stripped to nothing but naked bark and branches
The windy air welcomes a new, blank canvas
A tray with peppermint red and pine tree green
Gentle strokes capture the crisp frost on roof tops
And the steam from chimneys and mugs of mocha and caramel
A single breath is accompanied by a opaque white cloud
And the exposed trees are given a white sweater
-mh

I cannot seem to understand those people who view others as a utensil, a get away, a fancy party.

When you are yourself, that is all you will ever owe them.

Even in grief, debt, and self doubt, all you will ever owe them is for you to be you.

Could you possibly owe them a lovely touch, a tender look,  that's not too much?

Why of course you don't.

You do not owe them a night alone, a sweet word through the phone, all of you feelings known to them, you do not owe them a single thing, and if you feel like you do, there is a black screen over everything in your life.

You owe it to yourself to not worry about them.

Do not worry at all.

(j.a.r.)

maybe, if it's ok to say now, I still dance alone to the melody you put inside of my mind.

scratches on the splits of a turning black vinyl, a little out of tune perhaps, and skipping to the chorus at times unexpected.

my bare feet jump around this effervescent tune, afraid of taking the wrong step, not following your lead.

and as the song slows, as it comes to an end, I delicately observe the ringing remnants left dangling around our heads...

forever gone, but a hazy redolent all the rest.

-Julia Aubrey Rhodes-