Your cool as frost stare,
while coyly playing peek-a-boo
from behind a fan of clouds,
has kept your wanton visage burned
upon mans imagination.
You have mystified for eons,
with a slowly batting eye.
Drawing upon our souls,
as a tree draws moisture.
Slowly, yet surely siphoning our lust.
Men have stepped a kiss upon
your delicately powdered face.
You have left them craving more.

A sweeping staircase is her stage.
mahogany and marble.
Dressed to thrill, a fashion plate,
your heart she will ensnarl.

Each step she takes is calculated,
to keep your eyes upon her.
With waistline tight and neckline low,
accentuating the lure.

Her dress does slip, down behind her,
like a river, flowing red.
A sultry pout worn on her lips,
her eyes, promising her bed.

Perfection, there, before you now.
Yet, there stands an obstacle.
There's no chance, for she is just an
airbrushed, magazine model.

I wrote and read this poem at my grandmothers funeral.


While growing up, Toni; Steven and I
saw our Grandparents sacrifice,
so much of their own lives, without a fuss.
Along with our Mother, they did it just for us.
Though Grandpa he was called, he was our father
and in Mom and Grandma, we had two amazing Mothers.
We loved them with the clarity of a childs heart,
in each one of us, they became, so much a part.
Sadly, we have gathered together here today,
to say our final goodbye, to a wonderful lady.
Grandma was tough, she was stubborn and oh so loving.
She had about her, that special something.
That had every child in every neighborhood,
calling her Grandma, whenever they could.
I remember her ready laughter, at our antics,
and her guidance, by the seat of our *******.
The countless batches of cookies baked.
For each one of us, every year, our own special birthday cake.
The delicate Barbie and Troll doll clothes she made,
the big band music, on the stereo, she played.
The fragrant roses and brilliant dahlias, tended with care.
The home canned pears, who with the neighbors, she shared.
Then we grew up and though with Mom, we moved away,
Grandma and Grandpa, stayed in our thoughts every day.
Our sister Kristi was born and added to Grams happiness and pride,
then as if by magic, the years just flew by.
The four of us were having children of our own,
when Gram would hold them, her face fairly glowed.
Gram saw her great grand children grow into yong ladies and men,
Then came along some great, great, grandchildren.
I was always amazed, but never surprised,
how Gram, through the children, came alive.
Gram's whole essence was that of pure love.
So I firmly believe she has placed herself, in charge of the baby angels above.
She holds them in arms, that once embraced all of us.
She, herself, is held now in the arms of Jesus.
She is looking down upon us now, with a love untold.
Within her angels wings, she does now, all of us enfold.



In Loving memory of Margaret Sanford.
1918-2010

They say the eyes are the window to the soul,
peering upon our inner being, as it were.
Upon my deep reflection, my breath it stole,
as there, within, my true self was captured.

Peering upon our inner being, as it were,
affords one, the chance, to see yourself in truth.
As there, within my true self, was captured.
I could offer no defense, against the truth.

Affords one, the chance to see yourself.  In truth,
it reveals all the lies I have lived under.
I could offer, no defense, against the proof.
No longer can I live my life with blinders.

It reveals all the lies I have lived under,
stripping away the mask I show the world.
No longer can I live my life with blinders.
I will show what lies behind these eyes of emerald.

Stripping away the mask, I show the world,
upon my deep reflection, my breath it stole.
No longer can I live my life with blinders.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul.
________

Note  Depression forces one to don the mask
of normalcy.  For the world makes you feel tainted
when you admit and show yourself, as you are now.

Along with matching bands of gold
and the blessings of their Lord,
Two hearts begin a journey,
their hearts, were destined to unfold.

And the blessings of their Lord,
will see them through hard times.
Their hearts were destined to unfold,
entwining as flowers on the vine.

Will see them through hard times,
the respect they afford each other.
Entwining as flowers on the vine,
teamwork will keep them together.

The respect they afford each other,
as the honeymoon grows cold,
teamwork will keep them together.
Their faith will see them through.

As the honeymoon grows cold,
two hearts begin a journey.
Their faith will see them through,
along with matching bands of gold.

I think that a Bar-B-Q is an extension of a guys manliness.
Or manhood.
Now before all of you start disagreeing with me,
listen to this blondes logic.

When a man goes to purchase a grill
There are many factors a man has to take into consideration.
And they are, in this order, as follow:

1. Propane vs. Charcoal and Charcoal Fluid

2. The size of the grill

3. Rotisserie?

4. Accessories

5. Bar-B-Q covers


Let us take each consideration in turn.

Propane vs. Charcoal and Charcoal Fluid.

Propane men:

Some men want instant gratification.  Twist a **** or two, push a button here and instant heat.  Give it a few minutes to build to the right temperature and BAM!  In with the meat.  Once done, turn a **** or two and walk away.  No muss.  No fuss.

Charcoal men:

Other men are more inclined to take their time.  savor the experience.  They enjoy watching the flames build and turn into a glowing bed of meat searing heat.  When everything is just right, they gently place the meat.  They stand gaurd over it.  Tending to it.  Every once in a while poking it to test if it's ready.  These same men will sometimes sit snuggled around the glowing embers afterwards.  Watching the heat fade and cool.  Then they will ask their woman they had served  "How'd you like your steak babe?"

Charcoal Fluid And Men:

Some men should never be allowed near a Bar-B-Q that requires something to stimulate the flames.  It always ends in disaster and or injury.

Size Of The Bar-B-Q:

O.K.  Now this is a touchy subject for most men.  It has been known to cause envy, jealousy and has broken up a marriage or two.  Men think bigger is better.

When buying a Bar-B-Q , a man thinks about; cooking area, the possible need for side burners, portability, and the all important factor of presentation.  That's right.  How will it look to the neighbors and guests?  Will they be properly impressed with it? Also, can it handle the extra meat when company comes over?  Heaven forbid it should let him down and make him look foolish.

Rotisserie:

This is an important decision.  Does having your meat spin make it better?  I think that this is more of an individual decision.

Accessories:

Now we have reached a critical point.  How to accessorize.  Of course, every man needs the right equipment to ensure success.  And all of the tools need to have a long reach and be durable.
Tongs, fork, knife, spatula, basting brush.
Some men even splurge and go for a flavor injector.  Now that's a man who cares about his meat.

Bar-B-Q Cover:

Finally we reach the last consideration a man has to make.  To cover or not to cover?

Men!  Always, with out fail, should cover.  It is for their own protection.  And it shows you care.

Thank you.

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.

I see thee in yon grey mist.
A swirling, beyond the pale.
When an errant breeze does kiss,
mixing the ethereal veil.

Mine eyes perceive human form,
my heart yearns that it be true.
Then, away, by wind is torn,
leaving memories of you.

Perhaps tears, within mine eyes,
did a time, confuse my sight.
Having me see only lies,
of a love lost in the night.

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.

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

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.

We set it out, for all to see, word by word.  Like tombstones in a cemetery, bearing witness to
our thoughts.  Which allows ourselves, yet again, a brief respite from reality.  For within our
blood sings poetry.  Our tears cry its rythym.  Our determination its rhyme.  And within the
prose and verse we post, we relate to others like ourselves each time.  It was at that moment,
upon my first poem going out onto the net that I realized.  I am not that unique after all.

If, entrusted were I, with a magical purse,
one that held what was needed, but not monies curse.
One that neither bulged, nor would ever be empty,
so when I reached down within, there I'd find plenty.

A handful of tolerance, I would pull each day,
to pass out to those in need, I met along the way.
I would take a fist full of hope, to toss aloft.
Scatter it among the throng, letting it land soft.

I would enter into the turf of gangs and their wars.
Trading peace for their guns, so they would **** no more.
I would go to Washington, there I would invest,
two handfuls of honesty, perhaps ten, would be best.

Charity, I would share, with those who live large.
Help them to give some away, so no one need starve.
I could change so many things and alter many lives.
But, I could also do harm and make so many cry.

As it is so easy, to think one self's above,
to take control of lives, forgetting about love.
So for myself, I'd take a bit to keep myself humble.
So that I and my purse, never, ever stumble

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.

A name that brings rain to mind,
washing fresh the air.

Clouds embracing night time sky,
moonbeams scattered there.

Winds that carry scents aloft,
having me breathe deep.

Lightening dazzling the eye,
memories I keep.

Snuggle in quilts soft,
or stand on the porch to watch.

Cup of hot chocolate,
in my hand, with foamy froth.

Lights out, candles lit,
there were times it gave a scare.

Each time I hear it,
the name, Stormi, takes me there.

As I rise to leave you, this one last time,
you sing to me of love, that once was ours.
Stopping me in my tracks, so I tremble,
as your voice slowly melts all my willpower.

I turn back to see you there on bended knee,
holding the rose that had whispered upon my skin.
Your song reaches deeply into my soul,
asking me not to leave, to keep us whole.

It is so clear, we are where we belong,
within your sweet words, we found a way to mend.
We renew our joy, in each others arms,
promising to never let the love song end.

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.

To ****** a moment of time,
weave it into something tangible.
(No, not I).

Create imagery with words that dance,
around and behind the eyes.
(No.  Not I).

Pull emotions by blending,
amounts of self, facts and fiction.
(No, not I).

Holding the soul of the reader close,
so that they live that moment.
(Not I).

Accepting you have failed
and nothing more needs be written down.
*(I).

Sprinkled 'round is the shade
beneath the dieing tree.
Leaning to the left a bit,
almost upon it's knees.
As if begging for the water,
that from its crown it can see.
The home now vacant, foreclosed,
the landscape left thirsty.
it's not just families that suffer,
in this upside down economy.

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.

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.

I now know why the Willow weeps
A tragedy of love it's memory keeps
For once a young man and a young maid
On tender grass beneath branches lay
Though pledged by birth to another
From clans they hid to be together
Thus the gentle Willow was their choice
Meeting beneath, till love they could voice
The Willow held these secret lovers dear
So would lower it's boughs when they drew near
Then tucked away in the Willow's womb
Could lay as one, yet this love was doomed
For jealousy lurked within the Pines
Spying the lovers thus entwined
Behind their curtain of slender limbs
He swore the maiden would yet be his
And so it came to pass one day
As the maiden softly maid her way
To their Willow deep within the glen
She saw the branches did already bend
Timidly as she did draw near
A sound of sorrow met her ears
Parting Willow branches to look within
A dampness did touch upon her skin
The Willow was shedding sap laden tears
For the young man in death was near
It was an arrow that had been used
A potent poison it's head infused
The maiden now blind with grieving mist
Removed the arrow, held it clenched in her fist
Whilst cradling his head he drew his last breath
She did plunge the arrow into her breast
And so it is that this is told
The Willow's grief could not be consoled
For unable to stop what had befell
The young love it had hid so well
With it's will broken as the lovers lay dead
The Willow, it's branches, never again spread
And because it is the memory it keeps
it is to this day that the Willows weep



Featured Poem on Poetry Soup, April 4, 2010

The battlefield long now cleared
of corpse, blood and gore.
Belay the epic truth they tell,
knee deep in history and wars.

Dead stacked like cords of wood,
burnt on unsanctified fires.
Log by log of rigored souls
sent the flames up higher.

years later make shift morgues sat 'bout
to hold the fallen heroes.
Kept in dungeons and deeper colds,
till springtime thaw for burials.

Those that live on to build
and keep recording life.
Never thought once and all
war would end their daily strife.

So it goes, axe to sword,
Cannon to machine gun.
Scud missles to nuclear.
Who will be left to say they won?

Two halves of a whole
                  blend in perfect harmony
                                          Concert of the heart
                           ~~
                                
The touch of your soul
                   fate plucked at my heart strings
                                                 Life's music of love

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.

Sssttttuhhp....clunk.

Plink..plinkplink...flip, *****, ****, plink.
Donk, donkdonk, plink, doink, ****.
Flipflap..****, plinkplink, doink.
Doink, doinkdoink, whirrrrrr, buzzzzzzzz ****.

"Oh ****".

Sssttttuhhp....clunk.

Plink, doinkbink, flipflap, bink.
Twirrrrrrrrtwirrrrrrrr, twirrrrrrr *****.
flipflap.....clunk

"Oh....Man"!

Sssttttuhhp....clunk.

P­linkplinkboinkdoink...flip...bonk shhhupduuuup.
****, doink, *****, shuuuup.
plink, ploinkploink, **** doink.
booooouuuuupboooooouuuup...*****
flipflap...clunk

"Shoot"­!

Sssttttuhhp....clunk.

plinkplinkplinkplink, doink flipflap, bonk, *****, twirrrrrr.
doink, *****, bonk, wuuuuuup, twirrrrrr, puurrrrrrrr.
plink, ploink, doinkdoink, purrrrrrrr, shuuuuupshuuuup
plinkplinkplink, doink, flip, doink, flip, trrrruuuuurrrrp.

"YES"!  (shakes machine)

TILT!  TILT! TILT!

"NOooooooooo"!

You stand at your front door.  Looking down, you see horror.  You freeze in that spot as from under the door, comes the ****** seepage of carnage.

It pools around you.  As you push open the door and walk in, it makes a sickening squishing and suction sound.  The gore seeps into your sandals.

You know that you shouldn't, but fear also rules curiosity.  You walk further into the room.  Afraid that something is going to attack.

As you step through the room, you here an odd pop .  You gaze down at your feet.  There oozing over your toes, is the remnants of an eye.

Your throat starts to burn, as the bile rises up.  Your eyes lose focus.  You faint and slink to the floor.  You lay cuddled in the blood.

Upon your waking, you find yourself soaked in the blood.  It is gelled in your hair.  When you can finally stand, bits of raw flesh cling to your clothes and cold skin.

There before you are your freshly painted walls.  Covered in...someone.  It is then that you notice that you front door is now shut...and locked.

All you can think of, is the plumber that you had called in to fix you leaking kitchen faucet.  Oh no!  Is that a pipe wrench?

A noise from behind, has you quickly spinning around.  You see a shadow move.  It slinks in to the kitchen.  You give chase.  Stepping on entrails.

You had dreaded this.  You knew it would happen again.  There is no way to stop it.  There, like the last time,  on the kitchen floor is Diablo, your cat.  Daintily licking it's paws.  Looking very satisfied with himself.

You walk towards your little demon of a cat.  It stares back at you with eyes, green as jade.  You stand there, not knowing what to say or do.
As Diablo looks and says......

"Next time, order Chinese, O.K."



Ahhhh, I hope I scared you a bit.  This is my Halloween offering for Oct. 5th

Bwwwaaaaahahahaha

The breath of life, in a poem,                  
                     comes with the first stroke of your pen.
      
Your heart and soul poured into it,
                     ink, the blood that flows within.

Imagery, becomes sinuous,
                     entwined with rhythm flowing.

Singing amongst your memories,
                     your emotions, overflowing.

Taking form, molded by your hand,
                     into an image on the page.

With depth of vision, to be shared,
                     spotlighted on the stage.

To be spoken and proudly shown,
                     or kept for your own collection.

Individual, unique art,
                     ones own personal reflection.

Unerringly she always knows
when I need a hug.
Or a friend to sit calmly by.
Never does she judge.

I hold her here within these arms,
when the sadness calls.
Lays her head upon my shoulder,
as my tears do fall.

With her overflowing patience,
she accompanies me.
In public, as to seem normal,
not reclusively.

She alerts me unobtrusive,
when fear overtakes.
A gentle touch and eye contact,
tells me I am safe.

Embodiment of humanity,
this hero of mine.
She gives to me daily,
healing over time.

Although she isn't human,
she has done wonders.
Emotional Support Animal,
I couldn't "Live" without her.

My Grandmother had a sage saying,
she would regale us with, many times.
With various nouns for exchanging.
But, the meaning rang clear like a chime.

"Pretty is as pretty does".
If, as a diva, on of us girls was heard.
She would hit us with that saying because,
she knew actions spoke louder than words.

Being of a religious nature,
she deplored and showed her discontent,
of those that would shout out their own praise,
then would go about doing ill intent.

"Christian is as Christian does".
Grandma did guide us down that path.
She drummed into me that saying because,
she knew actions speak louder than words.

Aged and mellowed, golden whiskey in a wide mouth Mason jar.
Poured over sweet rock candy, was the guaranteed cure,
of ticklish throats; sprained ankles; hair loss; hang nails and more.
Always kept on hand, for times of desperate need,
of which Grandpa had a profound proclivity for.
No glass nor tablespoon was needed to dispense this elixir.
Just twist the ring, pop the lid, up end the jar and let it slide
down your parched throat..ummm, I mean,  soar throat.
I remember well, my first bout with laryngitis at the age of seven.
Grandpa hurried off, to get the magical jar of homemade "Cure".
Minutes later, he came in, carrying the jar like a precious jewel.
Pouring some of that honey hued nectar into a large serving spoon.
Tasting it first, making sure it hadn't gone bad, of course.
Then he slipped the spoon edge between my lips.
Boy-howdy, my eyes watered, I coughed for a spell.  
Then slept like a baby.

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".

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.

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

Just give me one good reason why I should go with you,
running round the yard nekkid, like we use to do.
Don't you recall the repercussions the last time we did that?
There's places on me I don't want sunburned, that is a fact.
Why, everyone in this small town knows who we are.
You never know when someone will drive by in their car.
I do believe the neighbor uses a telescope.
Into other peoples homes, her nose she likes to poke.
Now don't you go laughing at me as I turn beet red,
as you pull the shirt off over your head
I'm trying to talk some common sense into you.
I must admit that I am enjoying the view.
I can do this by myself, I don't need any help.
I'm not stalling for time. Oh! A breeze I just felt.
All right then, here we stand in our birthday suits.
Well, almost, you do look cute in them cowboy boots.
O.K. off we'll run together, when you count to three.
Take my hand, I can't believe I'm doing this..................1,2,3,WHEEEEEEEE!