"Why" before "Die"
Trying to understand,
the great plan,
Ultimate quest, of
Woman, and Man.

Yet, do we ever truly know,
Or only trace what shadows show?

"One and Done"
I'm sure my little poems,
have no chance of getting
anything "Done".
In a World of "Seven"
thousand languages
I know "One".

But words, like whispers, shape the sky,
A single voice still learns to fly.

"Connection.?!"
We can only write,
what's in "our" Mind.
Yet, still take pleasure,
in what "others", Find.

And so, within each line we weave,
A stranger’s heart may still believe.

"We Knew, So Few"
Earth's history of humans,
spans ages,
Yet individually, we get,
so few pages.
In this time, so few, we
get to know.
The rest, just flakes,
in our blizzard, snow.

But every snowflake shapes the storm,
And words like these still keep us warm.

Denny, your ink flows like an old, wise river—
A current of time, of questions, of truth.
Each verse a footprint, fleeting yet firm,
In the endless dance of age and youth.

You write of past, of now, of fate,
Of fleeting moments, vast yet small—
Yet in your lines, we contemplate,
How one man’s words can touch us all.

Gratitude for the thoughts you share,
For echoes deep and questions rare.
Poetry may not fix the world,
But it lingers, a banner unfurled.

Thank you for the verses you gift,
A bridge of thought, a gentle lift.

She writes like the sky when it aches in the night,
soft words like raindrops, heavy with light.
Each verse a whisper, each line a sigh,
a thought unfinished, yet reaching the sky.

She mourns in echoes, in bruised, gentle hands,
finding beauty in loss she barely withstands.
A squirrel, a muse, a fleeting embrace,
love never dies—it just shifts its place.

She seeks the truth but walks through grey,
a heart once open, now kept at bay.
Yet, even in sorrow, she finds her hue,
a poet of storms, painting skies anew

She gave her light, soft and true,
but hands that took just let it bruise.
A heart once open, now worn and sore,
kindness bent, became the floor.

She sought truth, pure and bright,
only to face a blackened night.
“Why not believe?” destiny said,
but how could she, when all turned grey instead?

She once found love in a garden untamed,
flowers whispered, the evening sun flamed.
A hand in hers, a wish unspoken,
but even love can leave hearts broken.

And oh, the tiny soul she raised,
fur so soft, wild yet brave.
A bite for a wrong, a love that stayed,
until fate, so cruel, took her away.

She cried for a squirrel, screamed for a muse,
words felt heavy, nothing to use.
A poet lost, yet still she writes,
in soft, aching lines on rainy nights.

She loved, she lost, she still remains,
a poet who bleeds in ink-stained veins