Sitting in the moonlight, clad in a soft white gown,
blood running from her fingers, to drip to the thirsty ground.
You feel her eyes upon you, beckoning you near.
You try to turn and runaway, but your frozen there with fear.
The remnants of her last meal, lays ravaged about her feet.
The ground is slick with blood and gore, you wish you had not seen.
She lifts her arms out towards you, to take you in her embrace.
You start to sweat and you feel your heart begin to race.
Her mouth, it is an ugly **** of pointed teeth and torn flesh.
It makes a sickly smacking sound as she smells your blood so fresh.
Suddenly, she's there beside you and hitting you with a plate.
You blink your eyes and shake your head, a smile comes to your face.
Now comes the messy task of cleaning up from all the food action.
You are just an average teen, with an overactive imagination.
It wasn't a ghoul or vampire, out to make you ****** confetti.
It was just your little baby sis, eating her spaghetti.

The skies sadness touched me
with a coldness upon my skin
To tell you the depth of it
Just where do I begin

The grey took my breath away
Scattering it amongst the winds
Then as the tears fell
The rain let loose again

My eyes saw no color
Just a veil that was thin
A wavering of vision
as heat waves off ash bins

I tasted a bit of salt
For my wounds, I rubbed it in
The whole of my being grieved
For the sun in a cloud coffin

How do I convey with words
That which is personal within
The thickness of the dictionary
means little when depression sets in

The skies sadness touched me
with a coldness upon my skin
To tell you the depth of it
Just where do I begin

The grey took my breath away
Scattering it amongst the winds
Then as the tears fell
The rain let loose again

My eyes saw no color
Just a veil that was thin
A wavering of vision
as heat waves off ash bins

I tasted a bit of salt
For my wounds, I rubbed it in
The whole of my being grieved
For the sun in a cloud coffin

How do I convey with words
That which is personal within
The thickness of the dictionary
means little when depression sets in

Mom, I saw your face today,
looking down on me.
From your picture frame,
you had just turned sweet sixteen.

Even with that smile,
which always reminds me
of your baby girl,
our sister kristi Lee.

I could see that you were sad.
It was there in your eyes.
Your smile failed to reach,
eyes, blue as the sky.

I wish I had been there,
to be your best friend.
We could have talked for hours,
laughed away our cares.

I'm not speaking of,
just when you were in your teens.
But, when I was at home,
is what I really mean.

I know I can't go back
and fix my past mistakes.
But, I wish I could,
for, both our sakes.

Each time we hugged goodbye
and I was off to school,
your eyes smiled at me.
Why is life so cruel?

To make the Angels suffer,
to earn their wings.
Cancer stole your breath.
Yet, your soul did sing.

There's a loneliness in me without you.
But, memories of us remain.
At least I can talk to you,
in your antique silver frame.

Now as I look again,
I see the mischievous way,
your eyes enhance your smile.
Mom, I saw your face today.

To write a poem is a treasure hunt.
Diving deep into the depths of your soul,
searching through your minds twisted alleyways.
Rummaging among flotsam and jetsam,
for that one pure gem that outshines the rest,
that starts out as a diamond in the rough.

Poetry is akin to opening a chest.
Spilling the jewels to flow over the page.
Each reveal, the precious stones take on life.
Mingling and coalescing into a crown
to be worn with pride and majestic joy.
Kaleidoscopic endeavor,
offers up a piece of yourself, you share.

Let's see, my oldest son was about seven years old.  The boys had to ride a buss to
school, which my oldest did not do well.  He has this way about him, that tends to have
women authoritative figures letting him off the hook, when he's been naughty.  I always
thought it was his eyes and devilish smile.  They both still get him into and out of
trouble.  But those are stories for another time.

This particular year, he was having a must difficult time behaving on the buss.  He had
discovered that he could be a real clown and the girls loved it.  Go figure.  The buss
driver gave him multiple warnings and "Buss Tickets" for misbehaving.  But, somehow,
he was always forgiven by the schools principal (a woman) and never got detention.  
Even when we insisted on it.

All except this one time.  On the last day of school, he decided to end the year with a
bang.  He came home from school that day and acted as though nothing had
happened.  Later that evening, I received a phone call.  It was the buss driver.  She was
laughing before she was even able to tell me why she called.  Although I was 100% sure
it was about my oldest.

Apparently, he was a little angel the whole ride home.  That alone made her suspicious.  
She pulled up to his stop.  Out he got.  Then he mooned her.  The way the buss driver
told it, it wasn't a quarter moon, nor a half moon.  But a FULL MOON.  He had hitched
up his pants and ran before she could get her wits about her.  She said she laughed all
the way home.

Well, I started to apologize through my laughter.  I assured her that we would most
definitely take this in hand.  But she stopped me and stated "Oh,  I'll handle this".  She
shared with me her plan.  I had the hardest time all summer, not telling him, that I
knew what he had done.

Next year, the very first day of school, my oldest went to catch the buss.  Oh, I had a
hard time waiting to see what would happen.  That afternoon, when he came home, he
was upset.  "Look what she did Mom!  I can't believe it!" he whined.  There in his hand,
was a bright red "BUSS TICKET"  The reason on it was marked in bold felt
pen..."Mooning".  Now, you would think that he would be upset about the mooning.  
Noooo, not my son.  His exact words were...."I can't believe someone that old would
remember what I did."

sigh  That boy has never changed

On a side note:  He and his Dad had a long talk about that Ticket.