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Once upon a time
when I was a child of three  
looking at the stars
and whispering to the moon,  
I sang me a song of love;  
then the years went by
and I lost my girlish ways
forgetting the view
I saw, life became unclear
as dry bones began to ache.
Returning to love  
I recalled the moon and stars  
and the girl who sang;
When I was a child of nine,  
yes, the world was truly mine
The whispering moon
was a big fat red balloon
that made my heart sing;
Though I always sang in tune,
life was over, way too soon.
May all the sonnets in the world compiled in beauty
lend themselves to your sweet eyes of gold
may every line of of penmanship speak to you of me
showing you that ardor, still untold

and when the moon comes out to serenade you darling
send me kisses from your balcony
and when the moonlight bathes the feather's of a starling
tinted dark as heaven's ebony,  

bring me all your charms and play your castanets my love
rend each doubt and join me over there
where every wingeth bird soars up like a turtle dove  
and plays you music oh so fair

may every sonnet ever written call you out by name,
may every poem ever uttered be your sweet proclaim.
Father Time

As the evening turns to a whisper, the sky changes to the color of wine  
and while the trees with their over-shadowed limbs hover by the path,  
saving stars of heaven shine down,  
as brilliant as the eyes of Father Time.  
When the night delivers her last soprano key and her song is
heard forever in the halls of nature's memory,  
every brook and every creature in the forest slows its pace.  
While the moon reflects the sun and mirrors its own light,
the small hands of time move forwards, ever so slowly.  
The sky evolving into an orchestra of music,  
shows us an endless parade of sailboats passing by,
they glide then disappear, far into the night
leading us ever closer to the blessed light.
When people talk about traveling to the past they worry about radically
changing the present by doing something small.  But rarely do they think about doing something small, to radically change the future.


Baby steps are important because they are much more achievable
then giant mountains or far away stars that cannot be touched
Short term goals are comforting to an individual
when the long term goal is still in progress, but out of reach
A sprint runner at a short distance race
has more powerful glutes, calves and quads to propel them forward
and gives them more time to build stamina, before the big marathon
Leave a tempting trail, activate cruise control, hold a hand
Wear comfy shoes and just start walking
When people think about the future, they think its already set
but it can be interchangeable, with one single step ahead.
Be progressive and advance onwards one baby step at a time
sooner than later your future will align,  
and you will get there when, its your time to shine.
When it comes to all my sorrows
what do I do with them
Do I place them in a paper cup
and pour them down the sink
Do I take a mallet to them
and pound them soft as mink
When it comes to all my tears
where do I bring them?
Do I bring them to the sea
to merge with salty smears
Do I offer up my wailings
to the God above?
When it comes to all my sadness
what can take them all away?
Do I grin and bear it with a grin    
then walk away on feet of clay  
or do I pray for better days,  
hoping that ,He'll lead the way.
You can hear the echo of their laughter ringing through the halls of bliss
voices rippled soft as feathers, swiveling down on earth like this!    
Airborne landings, joyful tickles, oh how innocent they are  
in the cradle of God's Kingdom, always landing like a star.
Feel the rush of wind on your heart without rescind ,  
as they flutter here and there doing as they please.  
They are often slow to anger, jovial and complete,
and if you ever are in danger they can take a giant leap.  
Sometimes, a wayward feather drops by unexpected time  
perhaps it is your Angel saying, " its your time to shine !"
Sometimes, you can hear them giggle from Elysian fields of blue  
where there are no storms or downpours, only heroes of the sun.  
Sometimes, you can see their antics if your eyes are rinsed and pure,
you can be their brave crusader using laughter as the cure.
Voices rippled soft as feathers swiveling down on earth like this,  
sometimes softer than a feather, arriving like a kiss.
With his long narrow beak he drank
drawing out nectar from a flower
it was an Eastern Red Columbine,  
an Aquilegia wild desire ...

Nature was singing a sweet refrain
sending sunshine to my visitor
with wings spread he extracted,  
using a tubular beak and tongue;

He was a welcome guest
inside this beautiful garden  
From a latticed gazebo I espied
as he took delight, in every sip
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