Diana was a dreamer.
She wished to sail away
On a sailboat made of reverie
To let her mind wander.
"Why, sail away?" you ask,
"It's such a bad cliché!
Be more original", you say.
But no, I can't, see:
This Diana wished to sail
And if you disbelieve that
She's surely destined to fail.
Diana wished to sail far,
For she knew she couldn't fly
(And talk of cliché!)
But she knew to sail a boat.
Why sail, why, it's easy:
If you knew no other escape
Wouldn't you take that route?
If you could fly, you'd fly.
So she could sail
And that, she did.
You'll notice, here,
I haven't told you why
Or where she chose to sail.
Well, I don't know!
Are you surprised?
Gosh, I didn't ask her where!
She just up and left,
But I know she's happy there.
The sailboat in question
Is a sight for sore lies:
Sails of soft green
And gold like her eyes.
It smells of the sea
And all that is sweet
And under those sails
Is such a lovely retreat.
This boat, while lovely
Requires much care:
No assembly required,
But imagination and flair
Are what makes this boat run
For, it's imaginary, of course
And only Diana can see this sailboat;
In her mind, forever, it'll be.
Day is plain
My matter transforms
Day is so plain
I become someone else
Take my real form
By moonlight my
are briefly fixed
The writer scratches a note to their side,
She moves through day to the night like bright lightning on the somber sky.
I love the sound of ukulele,
the sight of pink skies,
trees, flowers and deers,
and the imaginary days of joy.
I always wonder,
but never wander long,
oh I like butterflies.
I shifted again,
one story to another,
does that make me,
I used to drive airplanes,
but that's when I was eight,
I write now,
i use to think that the world was my oyster
until I remembered that i am as important
as i am useless.
the sun doesn't color the sky for my pleasure
and the air sure as hell doesn't arrive for my survival.
the universe still gives me reasons to be alive
but it doesn't give me the reasons why i should live.
theories upon theories
suggesting that one isn't cursed
to anything immortal
while another suggest that
the endless stretch of the universe
was made for absolutely nothing.
it is human to seek for meaning
and it is human to accept the impossibility of finding any.
but the glass will always be full of something
and maybe in a year or so, i'll be sure of this.
for now, i'll let the air speak
"it will be fine."
I shall tend to my garden.
My word of thoughts that are seeded,
to blossom at any time of day.
I shall tend to my field.
My plot of ideas that grow well,
that need to be harvested.
I shall take hoe to heart ,
and prune what doesn't serve
then a poem will be displayed
on window cil of my writers heart.
Looking at the dark sky
He looked at his paper and started to cry
Wounded by the harsh criticisims
Yet you aren't the God to judge him
He only have passion
But it turns to depression
Leading to stop writing
As people continue judging
Works are meant to get the critic
Not the person who writes the lyric
He is a writer by blood
And a person in the middle of the crowd
As potential grew, a desire to write, disclosed to few
Imagination immerse, but yet to thirst for knowledge, accrued ambition address
All aboard the express, thoughts of Harry, a plot to marry
From fanciful flights to greater heights
Capturing such visualisation, twas the formation
Characterisation, of wings to soar, with metaphor
From Dumbledore, yet taking shape
Professor Snape, assume the plot, lest thoughts forgot
A forest to roam, a philosophical stone
Such creative flair of which to share
Joining of the dotted line, artistic mind
Transporting train, journeyed acclaim
Of whom to impede, the will to succeed
The ability to write, the capacity to teach, the desire to reach
An impetus for change, a literary role, a priority
Of which to seek with tenacity
Beyond horizons, beyond confines, stand undefined
Awe-inspire, great readership, a due reply
To simplify, a noble shift, outstanding writer in the midst
Dynamic plot from pen to page, persistence through to published stage
A realised dream, challenge overcome
A victory won definably, stocked supplies to library
Broomstick flight phenomenon, a mystical tale was to become
Would generate, the bus of Knight, to render right
A rebuilt life, a legacy made
From chosen craft to final draft, a world of creativity
The right to type, to innovate, an intriguing wait
A shining star that would liberate
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©