The water tower stands above the town and can be seen for miles around.  It has a
ladder leading up to the base of the tank.  This ladder has been climbed by countless
teenagers, for thrills and mischief and young kids answering a dare.

     Over the years, many symbols and words have been painted on the tank.  From
Highschool mascots, to hearts of love and proposals.  Flowers and Holiday wishes
joined in.

     It had always been one mans job to keep the water tank painted and to cover up
any impromptu artwork.  He always took his time about it though.  Making sure that
each message stayed up at least two weeks before he would paint over it.
     One day he received a phone call.  On the line was a little boy.  This little boy asked
the man to please not paint over his message he had written on the tank, as it was
very important.

     The man explained to the boy that it was his job to keep the tank painted and
clean.  But, that he would leave his message up there, untouched, for two weeks.  The
little boy, with tears in his voice said  "Thank you, I hope it will be long enough".

  The next day, as the man was driving past the water tank, he looked up.  He saw no
message or pictures of any kind on that tank.  He shrugged and assumed that the boy
had just been to scared to make the climb all the way to the top.

     Three weeks later, the mans phone rings again.  It was that same little boy.  Very
excited, he proclaimed  "Mister, I just wanted to thank you for not painting over my
message...It really worked!"

    Intrigued, the man went to the tank with his paint and supplies.  He climbed to the
top, set down his paint and brush.  He walked around that tank several times and still
did not see a message.  But, as he bent to pick up the paint can, there it was.  
Towards the bottom of the tank, in crayon with a young child scroll was written:

       "Dear God, pleeze let my daddy come home frum war I miss him
                                   Your frend Mike"

The years passed.  Many drawings and words were painted over by one man and then
the other, as they took the job over.  But never, the one small patch, with that heart
felt prayer.

This story I am about to unfold,
is a favorite about my Grandfather.
In which he starts out acting very bold,
yet, ends running up a painful lather.

Down the dirt road, from where he lived, when young,
was a farmer growing watermelons.
Ripe, ready to eat, on the vines they hung.
From this patch, the farmer then, did sell 'em.

Being a boy with several brothers,
who were always doing as boys will do,
didn't take long, for one to dare the other,
to steal them a watermelon, or two.

Lo and behold, there went my young grandpa,
climbing through the barbed wire fence.
While his older brothers all watched in awe,
as he crawled through the tangled vines, so dense.

He looked around until he found the one,
that was the biggest that he could carry.
Cutting the vine, he hefted the melon up,
running towards the fence, in a hurry.

Well, that old farmer was wise to boys
and had watched my grandpa crawl through the field.
With his double barrel shotgun, he was poised,
to make sure, no more melons, he'd steal.

The farmer had loaded his own brand of shot,
filled with rock salt instead of lead.
Grandpa's backside got peppered while he did trot.
I think nothing more need be said.

Flesh is known ephemeral
                 From birth, past death, does decay
                                         Within the wind, our essence



                 The energy which binds our molecules
                 exists in the past, present and future

Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle,
closed up tight within a box.
My memories lay scattered.
Some are even lost.

Mixed in  with those memories,
are events that shaped my world.
Tangled, twisted, interwoven.
Like so many cheap strands of pearls.

Reach right in and pull out "Roller Skates",
one that might have a smooth edge.
But stuck to it might be "courage",
as I faced report card day with dread.

Grab up the piece that shows "kiss".
The first one with my boyfriend.
Underneath is disappointment,
as he chose another girl, by days end.

Dig around an you'll find "Trust".
lying beneath "Corporate Bile".
It seems to be stuck into,
the notch of "Legal Files".

There, in the bottom layer,
sits "goals", though now quite ragged.
From having been bumped, rubbed raw,
it's borders are now jagged.

Somehow "Life's Lessons", though quite large,
Tends to, at times, elude my grip.
It shuffles down between the layers,
affording me a glimpse of its tip.

Each mismatched piece represents,
a moment, I've put away.
There within the puzzle box,
to be recalled another day

It was his birthday, his fourtyninth year,
sat at his computer, he hadn't a clue.
Our son placed her on his chest without fear,
but, his big hands, didn't know what to do.
She looked up at him, with eyes dark and clear.
He fumbled to hold her, his discomfort grew.
She gave a big yawn, then gave a small belch.
I could see, that his smile, he tried to squelch.

He turned his attention then to our son,
who pointed at me, trying to shift blame.
Said, "Maybe you'll tell me just what you've done!"
"Happy Birthday" we cried, playing the game.
She then licked his thumb, with her pink tongue,
He tried to look stern, but his heart she did tame.
With her tiny black nose, she gave a shove
and just like that, he was in puppy love.


**Authors note:  This little 1/2 pound Chihuahua
melted his heart and let him love
a dog once more.  Not since our Siberian Husky
died over 8 years ago, had he even looked
at another dog.  "Precious" allowed him to love anew
without fear of a broken heart once again.

Cascading blooms on twisted vines,
wrap round the old lamp pole.
Reaching out to the night time sky,
to bare their petaled souls.
The lamp globe casts an ethereal glow,
through frosted, crackled glass.
The night moths flutter round the light,
perform a frenzied dance.

As clustered flowers drape the pole,
in a fragrant gown.
New, slender vines, twine bout the top,
like a leafy crown.
light winds caress the dew dropped blooms,
send their scent aloft.
Droplets, shimmer, as tiny jewels,
kiss, petals soft.

Blooms by day are as a rainbow,
arching against the sky.
By night, the shadows mix with hues,
baffling prying eyes.

Not a cloud in the sky,
Sunday chicken set to fry.
That is how I recall those Summer days.

Playing ball just for fun,
ice cream when the day is done..
Watching my freckles pop out from the suns rays

Colorful kites in the air,
Daisy chain in my hair.
Over and over in my memory it plays.

It was more than a childhood,
that Mom, Grandma, Grandpa gave to me.
It was more than a childhood.
It was a gift of, precious memories

Playing Barbie's on the porch,
Grandpa in his Bermuda shorts.
Big Band music on the stereo.

Playing tag with my brother Steve,
Ed Sullivan on T.V.
Listening while sister practiced her piano.

Swimming in our little plastic pool,
watching Grandpa work with tools.
Seems we were always having fights with pillows.

It was more than a childhood,
That Mom, Grandma, Grandpa gave to me.
It was more than a childhood.
It was a gift, of precious memories.

Slip and slides in the grass,
cold iced tea in a tall glass.
Runnin' barefoot through the neighborhood.

Gram making strawberry jam,
Hear Grandpa cheer a grand slam.
On our swing set we'd go as high as we could.

Walks down to the Rexall drug Store,
we were never, ever bored.
I know now, what back then, I never understood.

It was more than just a childhood,
that Mom, Grandma, Grandpa gave to me.
It was more than a short childhood.
It was a lifetime gift of precious memories.

Far within the forest deep,
where Pixies play and the Willows weep.
There lies a pond with lilies pink,
that within the night, the stars do wink.

Those that the pond loves and feels,
has respect for the Magi ways, will reveal,
to the one who gently sips,
the wish it will grant from whispered lips.

Not far from there, within a glen,
resides a lovely lass named Rose-Lynn.
With hair the color of brandied wine,
adorned with Hiacynths entwined.

A fey woman-child, our Rose-Lynn be,
who walks between dreams and reality.
Born to the woodland Fairy folk one night,
from a Star Flower in the moonbeams sight.

Raised on honey and Humming Bird eggs,
sprinkled with stardust and nutmeg.
Her skin as pale and smooth as Thistle milk,
she wears a dress spun from soft spiders silk.

In the forest she spends her days,
her laughter like bells, while she plays.
Though she loves the life she's given,
it is the wind in her hair, to which she is driven.

She watches the birds while they fly,
as they dip and weave, she gives a soft sigh.
As she watches she wishes with all her might,
that she could join them in their flight.

One day she chanced to find the cool pond,
that called to her to look upon,
its surface that reflected the world around.
Rose-Lynn curled herself, next to it, on the ground.

Rose-Lynn heard her name sweetly spoken,
as though a lover, offering a token.
It bade of her to gently sip,
and whisper softly, her fondest wish.

No sooner had she sipped and whispered thus,
the ponds surface was rippled in a wind gust.
Upon the surface settling once again,
there was a new reflection of Rose-Lynn.

There from her shoulders were wings, snow white.
That would enable, Rose-Lynn her flight.
The voice told Rose-Lynn, the wings would be hers,
all she need do was to whisper one word.

Rose-Lynn stared at her reflection,
at the wings pure perfection.
She didn't need to take time to guess,
with a smile, Rose-Lynn, whispered "yes".

As a flag, left to the ravages of wind and sun,
so too my soul, stands tattered and ravaged.
My visage now a faded memory
of once courageous colors.
My voice no longer crisp, nor upbeat.
But weak and undefined.
No longer do I instill nor evoke,
a sense of power or purpose.

I am easily dismissed as useless, unnecessary.

Yes, once I was the strong flag,
that laughed in the wind with a quick
snap and whip crack determination.

That was years and many storms ago.
Now, I give into the wind,
with a defeated wave
and the sound of a sigh.

My husband has a special gift,
that, in a way, I have myself to blame.
He doesn't just selectively hear,
creative hearing is his claim to fame.

My simple request; "Can you come help me a sec?"
Will garner a  "Sure I'll have some coffee."
So, what do I do?  I get him a cup.
Wondering if he had really heard me.

I guess it's just a marriage thing,
that comes with the territory.
That a man will hear what he wants to hear.
But, for creativity, George gets all the glory.

You see, rather than risk "Whatever you say dear."
Not knowing what he is agreeing too.
He slips into creative hearing mode
and says what he wants me to do.

Within the quiet of the night,
amid the shadows of my pain,
the strength I held so fast to,
ebbs, as another tear does gain.

With out the giving of consent,
it brings forth a fellow traveler.
To follow a chaotic coarse,
across my cheeks, twilight pallor.

Bare of conscience thought,  I brush aside,
the meaning each holds alone.
I hide behind my false bravado,
as my tears dry on their own.

Oh, the fine attire.  
Women in low cut, grand gowns.
Men in their finest plumage.
Strutting Peacocks, aiming to draw attention.

I wore tails of silk, with fine brocade work as the trim, down the sleek lapels.  I dressed entirely in black.  From head to toe.

I looked splendid!
I stood out from the Peacocks, as a Raven would
stand out among Doves.
Cunning as a Raven too.  She had not one suspicion.

I was at my best.
Charming, witty, a mystery.  Women fall for that.

I slowly, cunningly stalk my prey.  A vision in gold.
I danced with her.  Her gold, a perfect foil to my black.
I charmed her sweetly.  I maneuvered her easily.

I had previous, had the chance to find the spot,
where she would become mine.  Such a pretty throat.  One that I will drown within.

Once outside, hidden, strategically from all eyes, I began my "dance".
I gaze down into her eyes.  Her precious heart begins to race.  I can feel her blood.  It calls to me with it's song.
A song of need.
Her breaths slowed and deepened.  Her eyes remained locked with mine.

I let her see then, the glory of what I am.  She wanted to scream.  But, I had control now.  

My incisors grew.  Their points very sharp indeed.  My muscles bulked.  I ruined my fine new coat.  Split the shoulder seams right out.


I toyed with her.  I kiss her lips so gently.  She trembled for me.  I tried to hold back, wanting to prolong her fear.

Blood lust is, what is.  I could smell her rich, thick blood.  I wanted it all.  I wanted to bathe in it.  Feel it glide over my skin.

My fangs sank deep.  Drawing up the precious blood.  Elixir of life.
As I fed, I heard her heart slowing with each draw I took.  

And just before death could claim her, I released her from her thrall, to scream.  It was the last sound I heard as the men came running.  I took my leave.

I am a monster.
I do it well and I love it so.
Soon the sun shall rise again.
I will sleep as the dead.


~Lord Kellington

Silver Angels, with golden wings,                           *    
           *         wrapped in tissue, with other things.     *     *

Stockings, hand knit, by my Grandmother,
    *      *       folded neatly away, one atop the other.
        *

Favorite ornaments, growing old and brittle,                         *   *
                    that were hung, each year, when I was little.  *       *

A faded Nutcracker, that by the door, stood guard.
   *    *          A lighted Santa, that would always grace our yard.
     *

All, left alone, in the attic this year.                              *   *
                   To look upon them, only brings dry tears.  *    *

The very act, just...takes away my breath.
  *     *         There is no joy.  In fact, there's nothing left.
       *

There will be no twinkle lights on the mantle.                      *  *
                    No evergreens, fragrant and ornamental.   *    *

The radio will be silent, the baking oven cold.
  *   *           No Holiday spirit, in my heart can I hold.
    *

Just this deep, defeated feel.                                           *   *
                   A sadness that invaded, refusing to heal.   *   *

Grandchildren will call, their excitement clear.
   *    *                   In their hearts, they hold the Holiday cheer.
      *

I'll have my mask, firmly in place.                                             *   *
                   I'll answer and question them all, with false grace.  *      *

Then as I hang up the phone on the wall,
      *          I'll turn away, as though nothing happened at all.
   *

Seeing these things, listed here, in print.                                *   *
                   Just leaves me numb.  No emotions were spent.   *    *

So, I will continue, in this life that I live.
   *     *        Like a dried Christmas tree, with nothing left to give.
      

Upon my cheek, lays the crisp morn,
sweet scents of Autumn, on the air borne.

Berries cluster in the Holly trees.
Birds at the thistle, eating seeds.

Spider webs with dew, are adorned.
Squirrels scurry off, with their acorns.

Leaves turn from jade green to fire,
as trees show off their Fall attire.

Wind rustles through the dry corn stalks,
whispering to me, while I walk.

There is a bite to the evening breeze,
while smoke swirling, from chiminies tease.

I watch the clouds, over the moon float,
ending this Fall day, on a soft note.

You come to me, stroke my cheek,
then wrap your strong arms about my waist.
With your bedroom eyes, you silently speak,
your kisses intoxicate with your taste.
But, you stop dead still, while in our haste.
I feel I have lost your full attention.
Then I see on what your focus is based,
your in love with your own reflection.

You hold a pose, relishing your attraction.
Then you turn to me with practiced ease.
I want to be your only distraction.
I would do anything for you, if you'd please,
hold me  aloft and far more dearer.
Yet, I just can not compete with a mirror.

She tells warm lies through lips cool as frost,
while her eyes cast frigid glares.
Her backhanded barbs, sharp as steel,
strike like ice crystals in your heart.
Infidelity coats upon her like a sheen of ice.
Beauty and slippery deceit, rolled into one.
And yet, you stand, as a man made of snow,
not truly seeing, not speaking out.
You slowly die, waiting for her to thaw.
A snowball in Hades stands a better chance,
than you, to win her heart.
For within her veins runs soiled slush
and her soul is an Arctic wind.

Behind the rough and gruff facade,
amongst the sternness and the pride.
Along with calloused hands and the scars
A little boy still resides.

in spite of responsibilities,
the hard days, daily grind.
There within a man full grown,
that little boy still hides.

In the crooked grin, stuck out chin,
mischievous twinkle of the eyes.
Crazy antics, chances taken,
a little boy joy rides.

Eat one more cookie before dinner,
spend all weekend, playing outside.
Put off mowing the lawn one more day,
that little boy decides.

Work extra hours to pay the bills,
don't let that "Honey do" list slide.
Do anything to see me smile,
His little boy is justified.

Appears a ghostly vision, fog in from the sea.
As if sentient in movement,  shrouds all in it's mystique.
With a cyclop eye, lighthouse lends a mournful wail.
While specters breath dampens all, your marrow the chill impales.
Out of sight, crashing waves, sound loud as if they crawl,
following the living mist as it breaches the seawall.
Seeping round panes and doors, into every crevice.
The very air liquefied, a grey oppressive presence.
Wood smoke blends it's flavor to the tang of the air.
In hopes the flames beat it back, keep tendrils from drawing near.
Slowly it tastes it's fill of wooden planks and blood.
It leaves a sodden salt strewn smell seeming to just dissolve.
Folding back on itself, returning to the brine.
Fog waits yet another morn to return to shore and dine.

C  Charitable with her heart
H  Honesty is her way
E  Eternally devoted to her faith and God
R  Riotously funny
I  Inspiration to others
E  Ever on the go

B  Best friend, that I never met
R  Routinely can be found playing Family Fued
I  Involved with her children
G  Graceful in forgivness
G  Gentle with her words
S  So thankful, am I, that we found each other

Cascading blooms on twisted vines,
wrap round the old lamp pole.
Reaching out to the night time sky,
to bare their petaled souls.
The lamp globe casts an ethereal glow,
through frosted, crackled glass.
The night moths flutter round the light,
perform a frenzied dance.

As clustered flowers drape the pole,
in a fragrant gown.
New, slender vines, twine bout the top,
like a leafy crown.
light winds caress the dew dropped blooms,
send their scent aloft.
Droplets, shimmer, as tiny jewels,
kiss, petals soft.

Blooms by day are as a rainbow,
arching against the sky.
By night, the shadows mix with hues,
baffling prying eyes.

Lying, cheating, thievery
Were his devils trident
Piercing through an Angel's wings
Leaving her spirit spent

"I know that she could not leave me"
Blinded by self content
Refused to see his hands in things
Never would he repent

Yet Angels heal and then see
Past pretty ornaments
To a future that would always sting
At the point of his trident

Now alone, trident and he
Without love heaven sent
Bemoaning how fate pulled the strings
Blinded by his own contempt

I knelt down and cried, within His gentle, multi colored hands.
Confessing to my sins and hoping He would understand.
I realized my own forgiveness was at my command.
I had been harder on myself, with my own reprimands.

Gently, in multi colored hands, I cried and knelt down within.
He said that my beliefs, were not looked upon as sins.
For was He not a part of everything we had been given?
And was He not at the core of every Sects religion?

His multi colored hands, gentled, as I knelt down within and cried.
For God has not one Nationality, nor one color, I realized.
And I did not see a sign that read Only Christians Need Apply.
An all encompassing love, was his way of a reply.

Though the words, you have rarely spoken.
                            You present unexpected tokens.

     With my kiss, your intent percepted.
                            Your apology is accepted.

As the wind cavorts among the Palo Verde limbs,
blossoms leap, float away, according to natures whim.
Landing within the waterfall, passed from rock to rock.
Or decorating pebbled paths, tiny yellow dots.

All along, unawares, of the blooms adventure.
The Palo Verde stands its ground, knarled, strong and sure.
Yet, by bending, yielding, to a strong winds desire,
the Palo Verde won't end up upon a camp bonfire.

The next time you find yourself headstrong in opinion,
so sure you are right, that you create undue tension,
think back to the Palo Verde and its sacrifice.
Give in a bit, so cooperation you will entice.

Let new ideas dance round like wind in your mind and grow
Don't let your bullheadedness be all that you show.
Allow yourself to not be rigid, learn how to bend,
you will find standing tall so much easier in the end

L Lightening bolts of curiosity................Let them strike.
I  Ignite the imagination........................Follow its flame.
V  Vehemently pursue your dreams........Let them lead.
E  Enevitably follow your conscience.......Heed its call.

L  Levity is inherent..............................Let it free.
A  Allow your inner child to play.............Share your joy.
U  Unpredictability is encouraged...........Surprise yourself
G  Go ahead, splash in a puddle............Silly, is O.K.
H  Have a belly laugh daily.....................For what ails ya.

L  Logic does not rule the heart.............Hear it sing.
O  Over the top, head over heels...........Go for it.
V  Vast is our capability........................See the possibilities.
E  Even when mad, say these words......I love you.

Towards the edge, of the pool
I, was running bare.
Not very brave.
There already, in the pool,
swam the others, as nature made.
All my skin was a showing,
such a scary, sight to see.
But the others, kept on cheering,
so that they, could get a peek.

Running bare, into the water,
never again, not on your life.
Running bare, into the water,
embarrassment, I won't survive.

I couldn't find, secluded water,
nor a floatie, wide enough.
I couldn't find, any shelter,
that would hide, all my stuff.
In the sunlight, they could see me,
splashing water, so to hide.
As my cheeks, were getting redder,
others swam, to be by my side.

Running bare, into the water,
never again, not on your life.
Running bare, into the water,
embarrassment, I won't survive.

With all the splashing, in the water,
they thought, I was drowning.
They all swam, out to help me,
just to find, me sitting there.
In just a few, inches of water,
with the sun, strong, beating down.
After the laughter had subsided,
I got a sunburn, lotion rub down.

Running bare, into the water,
never again, not on your life.
Running bare, into the water,
embarrassment, I won't survive.


Inspired by the song:
Running Bear, by Johnny Preston

Summers meant harvests of berries and such,
chores to do before play.
Running barefoot in lawns that were lush,
the smell of fresh mown hay.

Hoeing the garden to keep down the weeds,
cooling off with the hose.
Bagging up the dried Marigold seeds,
finding Ladybugs in the Rose.

Swimming holes, Dead Mans alley, long evening walks.
Picket fences lead the way,
as I walked with Grandpa and talked.

Summers were the time for Rights of Passage,
lessons in growing up.
When bravery or cowardice sent a message,
with buddies there for backup.

Warm nights allowed for camping out back,
fireflies aglow.
Lying in wait for a surprise attack,
until the lantern burned low.

In those hot Summer days of sixty five,
something in me changed.
Through my talks with grandpa, a calm came alive.

He taught me how to feed the birds,
standing quietly as you can.
They would come to his whispered words,
eating out of our hands.

Grandpa taught me the importance to truly see,
what was slipping past.
I watched the world, as other kids ran free,
knowing Summer wouldn't last.

As for me, I was content to let pass,
those Summer days in shade,
learning to whistle, on a blade of grass.


**Thank you Grandpa for all you taught me.

Deep within the canyon flows,
a sinuous fluid gem.
Speaking in whispers deep and cool,
to ancient rock walls it skims.

Rusting oak leaves set sail upon,
the back of this rippling jewel.
Past Heiroglyphs and forgotten caves,
to trade secrets in shallow pools.

Majestic pines lean over sandy banks,
as if to peer at their own reflection.
While the Willows weep at the beauty of,
a liquid diamond's song of pure perfection.

I want to let you all know how appreciated you all are.  Your kind comments and encouragment keep my pen flowing.
Poetry for me started as a way to fill free time while recovering from major back surgery 3 years ago.
It quickly turned into the healing balm itself.
I have been diagnosed with severe depression.  Post traumatic stress etc.
Poetry is my outlet for stress and anxiety.  Perhaps that explains my prolific sessions and then my dry spells.
I wish I had the inner fortitude to comment as I would like to all of your amazing poetry.
Perhaps in time, as the healing process continues, I will feel free to open up privately to each of you as I would like.
Each time I write a comment, it is with many second guessing and editing.  Wondering if I am hurting, judging or unententionally causing the author pain.  So know that the comments I give a genuine and heartfelt.  Not just a quick flip of the keys.
As I write this letter to you all, I am fighting the strong need to delete and shut down.  But I must push past the block.  This is a start.
Please know that I do read them all. They have made me feel close to my unseen friends and poetic  family.
Thank you for being here and offering me a glimpse into your hearts and souls.  I have been pleasently rewarded.

Paula Swanson

Bees in a hive, making honey
United, in duty, for the colony.
Zestfully searching for hours,
Zig zagging among the flowers

Sunrise, their tunes they deploy,
Oscillating, their songs of joy.
Nesting and putting on a show,
Greeting the bees as they go

I, exist between me and myself,
in an ever deepening void.
Whatever angle life is dealt,
of emotions, it seems devoid.

In an ever deepening void,
I realize, I'm slipping away.
Of emotions, it seems devoid.
Yet, so comforting, I think I'll stay.

I realize I'm slipping away,
as I gaze at myself in the mirror.
Yet, so comforting, I think I'll stay.
I am my own souls bearer.

As I gaze at myself in the mirror,
I see what lies beyond my own eyes.
I am my own souls bearer.
How could I not have realized?

I see, what lies beyond my own eyes,
whatever angle life is dealt.
I am my own souls bearer,
I exist, between me and myself.

Curious. How we view ourselves, while on the slab we lie
Knowing forever shut, earthly windows, our eyes
Modesty behind us now, embarrassment we don't feel
Our flesh, we don't cringe away, from the frigid stainless steel
To look with no emotion, incisions, from the autopsy knife
Every muscle utterly still, relaxed as never in life
No blood to rush a blush, our cheeks a pallid waxy grey
Lividity of our skin, shows how in death we'd lain
Enevitably we will be reduced to a dusty grime
Either by an uncaring fire, or the mercy of time

She played the keys with an angels caress,
drawing upon emotions from love to duress.
He would come place a single rose of blue hues,
upon the ivories to express his love true.
Gently she would place the gift in her raven hair.
While from his chair he would listen and stare.
Never a time did he miss presenting his blue rose.
He enjoyed a love deeper than most men know.
The years quickly passed, as they have wont to do.
Their love for each other, like his blue roses grew.
One night from, her silver hair, the blue rose fell gently to lay
upon the ivory keys, as she did beautifully play.
There it dried and wilted before her eyes.
With tears, she looked over at him and knew he had died.

Always saw my eye rolls, even when her back was turned.
Somehow she knew when I was in trouble,
no matter how well I thought I hid it.
Perceiving my fears and anxieties
and the teenage uncertainties of life.
Told me when my young heart was overflowing with love
and in later years, the secrets I never revealed.
She knew when to give me space or a needed hug.
She knew that I would find my own way in life,
so she passed her powers on to me.
Now that I have been a Mother myself,
I understand now, just how it is, a Mother always knows

An echo of your breath,
softly sets upon my ear.
Lays within my very depths,
resonant words I can hear.

Softly, sets upon my ear,
the lyrics of our souls tune.
Resonant, words I can hear,
heartbeats join the gentle croon.

The lyrics of our souls tune,
sings of velvet bonds that bind.
Heartbeats join the gentle croon,
of a love that transcends time.

Sings, of velvet bonds that bind,
the essence of what we share.
Of a love that transcends time,
life has nothing to compare.

The essence of what we share,
lays within my very depths.
Life has nothing to compare,
an echo of your breath

Once upon a time....

When the darkness came to greet me at my door,
I would simply answer "She doesn't live here anymore".
And when the darkness prowled around my house to spy,
Why, I would simply walk right up and spit into it's eye.
Should the darkness have followed me from store to restaurant,
I'd have engaged it in conversation and asked it want it wants.
If that pesky darkness had sneaked up while I was eating chocolate,
Well, then it had to run, before I kicked it in the nuts.

But now in present day....

Should the darkness come and descend at times like these,
I am sorely tempted to embrace it, beg on my knees,
Don't wait until I sleep and dream to steal me away.
I am at times willing, even in the bright of day.
Send out your tendrils, envelop me as a blanket would,
and I will snuggle deeper still, If only I could.
But yet a spark of Once upon a time, stubbornly remains,
Just enough, on days like these, to keep me this side of sane.

I come to you by way of my pen,
to dispell some rumors told.
To hear the lies being spread,
does make my blood run cold.

There is no basis in facts,
that I have a heart of gold.
Never should it have been said,
that I could be a beauty to behold.

Then there is the one that states,
that I have complete self control.
Aparently, someone out there,
swears, I am not yet looking old.

I have a group of so called friends,
that claim I am not thick-skulled.
Some even swear I am demure
and have never been overbold.

It's a shame that lies like these,
have a way of taking hold.
Eventually, they may have even I,
resembling this picture they mould.

'Neath the Willows, cloaked in brume,
as streams the night time a deepening.
Enshrouding all in shadows womb,
I espy true loves awakening.

Eve tide slumber found a youth,
within the mead, where I do dwell.
Wont was I, to bespell, forsooth,
tis truly, one thing I do well.

Mazed, stands young swain, aside his bay,
embracing nymph, of flaxen hair.
Bedewed, were eyes, by impish fay,
for it be a swine, he holds there.

Of deep laughter, I do partake.
As disenthralled, young swain awakes.

Passion through years does grow anew,
when tangled, are emotions, soft.
Respect is held, with trust, aloft.
Seeing more beyond, to value.

Your eyes held mine, that's how I knew,
what became of the years that fly.
They were stepping stones , as whereby,
our years together, passion grew.

Mere words can not give justice to,
the joy in our life's adventures.
From that first kiss when love matures.
George, you are my passion renewed.