That Garden, That Garden
I see it in my sleep.
The rivers run green,
bright and alive,
a scene that holds me still.

The air is thick with a scent I cannot name,
unique, like nothing else.
The water flows with a sound
I would hold onto forever.

The flowers are soft,
their colors muted,
gentle against the eye.

In the lake, a bridge rises,
bright oak simple, steady.
And the tree stands alone,
its arms wide,
a mother watching over her children.

I wake with a kink in my neck,
in my eye; a dirt speck.
Calling for all hands on deck; but we’re sinking.
I wish to return to the caves,
before we were on these rough waves
don’t know how we’ll dig these graves;
but I’m thinking.

But if I was taken by the wind
atleast then I’d understand.
But when the lady of the sea grinned
I came crawling hand over hand.
But if I was taken by the breeze
then I’d give up the horizon and trees
the sand and the land with great ease.

The ship of lost souls starts it’s sail at dawn
watch how it moves along,
in the currents so strong; isn’t she sturdy?
It’s stern turns so incredibly tight
even on the roughest night
but when held to the light; her deck’s *****.

But if I was taken by the wind
atleast then I’d go willingly.
Along with those who have sinned
or just those who chose to be free.
But if I was taken by the breeze
then I’d give up the flowers and bees,
leave it all behind, pay no mind
and even say please.

Never was a girl so pretty
You should see her through my eyes

you are a qıestion
in my problem
right answer is to past

Poetry
is heaven sent
Not easy to write
something magnificent
It's pretty late
into the night
I close my eyes
to acquire sight
I want to write
my mind is still
I have to fight
the forlorn will
to end the night
and simply say
opportunity will knock
some other day
but I'm past the age
where opportunity knocks
I need to think
outside the box
and be myself
write something that rocks
or at least
something that doesn't ****
I need to break
this writer's block
I look at the ceiling
Look down at the clock
Stare into nothingness
as boredom mocks
the writer in me
Just my luck
This poem is about nothing
who gives a ****

I whittled away quietly at life
understanding my limits
and sometimes overstretching
but I always learned on that path
once on the right path I quickly moved on
and never looked back
Quietly people noticed me
which was daunting and exciting
so, I whittled some more
learning from my peers
I expanded their experiences
and my confidence grew
until I met love
which is worldly but solitary also
I whittled some more
but quickly realised
WE needed to whittle together
we did
understanding our needs
separate and whole
became a new challenge
but love conquers all
our whittling complete
our names now carved

Parenthood began
we whittled away quietly at life

he looked to shadow
a cold wind came from far one road
memories was a dream alike now
the end is very misty

stoped world when you go
we are sleeping on the cloud
who ask tomorrows
is real a dream perhaps