Look, there she is...flying away
That fairy with her pearly gossamer wings
I tried to imprint her in stone and clay
But she just refuses to be bound by strings

The History is splattered with her fame
Can you then guess her brilliant name?
It goes in rhyme with rhyme
Yes, her name is Time

She is fickle, she has no plan
Yet she won't wait for any man
Howmuch ever you fight and fret
Once she is gone you are bound to regret

So as long as you have her, make a wish
Mayhap she will shower you with a kiss
She has lived through the ages
Her tales have filled up eons of pages

To keep her you have to be wise
Oh she is a fairy, she can be nice
She can wave her magic wand
And put the world in your hand!

So look there she is...again flying away
That fairy with her pearly gossamer wings
No, don't imprint her in stone or clay
She is too beautiful to be bound by strings!

Seventh Grade.
I wrote a poem about a solider
who couldn't unsee all the damage
wrought on his friends and brothers.
My mother cried.
Asked, “what have I done?
For you to write such
despairing things?”

Eighth Grade.
My English teacher tried to
“Harness” my talent,
in the raw.
Pushed me into competitions
Of which I had no interest.

Freshman Year.
I got accused of plagiarism.
After all,
What could I possibly know
of the world's tragedies,
after a mere 14 years spent here?
I was told to “stick to something
a 14-year-old girl would right. So
it isn't obvious.”

Sophomore Year.
I wrote about
the boy who held my heart.
Because that's what
15-year-old girls write about.
Or so I've been told.

One ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,

One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.

Three rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,

Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,

Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,

One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne

In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,

One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them

In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

the morning has dawned
achingly bright
the clouds of yesterday
blown away in the night
after leaving.....
just a dusting of spherical
pearls on leaf and grass tips

the wind just now a breeze
giving the sea a herd of
white horses  to cross
the blue- green plain
and play tag with the sailor
in racing boats.

i stand inside, with the warmth of the fire at my
back , cup of tea steaming
in my hands...and make plans for this promising
winter's day...

full well knowing, in an hour
the vista could change....
thus are, the vagaries of life.

your words poet
sing their song
In my innermost
each word completes
your welding craft
into memorable poems

Preparing the ground
in this fertile mind
putting down roots
with the fervour I’ve found

Digging down deep
planting thought bulbs
hope will rise up
Their green shoots will
abound

Picking petals one by one
Counting every blessing seen
Rainbows on the wooden fence
Still life painted in a dream

Hedges run a distant mile
Shaped as every promise shown
Cutting corners of the lost
Happiness in what is grown

I’m cutting back the choking weeds
of doubt and negativity
And moving on the slugs and snails
that stunt my productivity

With mind over matter
this garden will bloom
this change is organic
and normal service
will not resume
(who wants to be normal
anyway?)

I’ve been sowing seeds
with faith love and prayer
In ground once barren
songs will blossom there

Melodies fragrant and free
Tiny sprouts of grand design
Break the soil seeking light
Flourishing for it is time

*Sing with me my garden friend
Walk along my winding path
Smell the beauty on the wind
Life shall be the aftermath