Autumn Lady
Reanna with autumn hair and summer eyes.
Lady from afar here in England.
With such charisma, capturing her image in a blink of your eye.
Imagine that there was only ever one sunrise; that is Reanna's beauty.
As memorable as a waterfall, free and never still.
In movement.
Never a prisoner of anyone.
Always laughing and smiling, never sad or in tears.
Her laughter is infectious.
Reanna will make you laugh, banishing your sadness.
With Albanian and Greek culture and relatives, Reanna is very unique.
In her mind's eye Reanna dreams of rugged beautiful landscapes and flies over them like a lark.
Swerving and swooping with total movement.
Imagine Reanna dancing, in tune with the music.
That's Reanna.
Alive with movement.
Her personality is as colourful as the cakes she makes.
Happy, confident, smiling, funny, sweet, cultured, intelligent.
Reanna.
Greek autumn lady!!!

"'I am half-sick of shadows,' said the Lady of Shalott."
-Lord Alfred Tennyson
…but half of her bends towards them,
these whispered tableaus, her spine tilting backward.
She carefully hordes them
like granules of opal. Her hands become lacquered
in half-dreams and dyes,
and her tapestry spins into colors so rich
even she is surprised
that her fingers have laced every cross, every stitch.
She is sick of half-shadows;
she wants the thick darkness to drown her whole essence.
These sparkles and dayglows
will stir her to madness in milky-white crescents,
and she will sink into nothing
without any name on the heirlooms she weaves;
She will fade into nothing,
and no shadows will weep on the day that she leaves.

Mother of Cowards
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land,
Spread-eagled, showering gold, a strumpet stands:
A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame
Has long since been extinguished. And her name?
"Mother of Cowards!" From her enervate hand
Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand
Allegiance to her ****'s repulsive game.

"Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!" cries she
With scarlet lips. "Give me your hale, your whole,
Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased!
The wretched refuse of your toilet hole?
Oh, never send one unwashed child to me!
I await Trump's pleasure by the gilded bowl!"

NOTE: My sonnet is a parody of the famous poem "The New Colossus" written about the Statue of Liberty by Emma Lazarus. Keywords/Tags: America, American history, liberty, United States, Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus, Statue of Liberty, Lady Liberty, torch, freedom, beacon, lamp, light, door, golden door, liberty, immigrants, immigration, refuse, homeless, poor, rich, discrimination, huddled masses, yearning, breath free, giant, fame, free, freedom of speech, independence day, New York, patriotic

don't think you could
beat the street without
me

it's madov's bossy laughter
and his vossy
attitude

i don't know if
you know what i mean:
solitude

but that's fine my brother
but that's fine my sister

without writing
everything is fist fighting
without fist fighting
everything is writing

i need me a

new language
new lady
thousand babies

and i'll found a tribe
you never heard of it'll
be called

tizzop

I confess to you and only you, lady moon highest in the sky, to take my fears and insecurities and keep them with you throughout your path in the night sky. For when Daybreak comes, those fears I hold close to me will be protected from the burning light of the sun. For when Daybreak comes, the secrets I've shared with you will be shielded and safe under the dim light of your moonbeams. For when Daybreak comes, Nobody but you and I will know of the secrets I've kept with you.

She had a crown on her head
And the soul of a dragon.

i want to make love to you
get naked and come to me
cause we are two halves
in need of each other

your name means wisdom
we haven't been intimate together

yet.

you explained to me tonight how to
administrate the café business of
our stationary treatment
  
when we were looking at each other, there was this brief moment of
intimacy, caused by a mild burning
in my stomach, you know, this land
of my soul...

this land of the real me.

let's flow...

on a staircase in frankfurt, german financial centre.

a habesha lady in company of two brothers; one of them, a rastafarian, is carrying a beautiful young girl in his arms.

the habesha lady grabs into the girl's ***** blonde hair, saying: "her hair looks so good."

by the sound of her voice, i sense clearly that she has been on strong drugs excessively.

what will be her fate?
and, more importantly, was this girl her daughter?

Love is a left-mouse click, a flashing prompt,
For the cursor cross of a Crusade that never was,
And the knight who is broken on the scroll wheel,
And the lady in waiting who backspaces from the real.