Words, Words, Words,
why do we write? Is it just A need to communicate, or are we trying to share our love of emotions and feelings for the world around us. I think poetry is our attempt to convince others that we feel, think, hurt, laugh, love. To open a door with words and share our journey of self discovery.
When all is not, and I feel forgot, I write
when day is done, the night has come, I write
it eases me as nothing can
just mere thought controls my hand
.....and I write.
There's no glorious purpose the words I find
nor great works from whence my mind
but still I write.
Ghosts of my ancestors I believe keep me safe
their job never done, never sleep, never waste
our views, our beliefs our traditions so set
the day we were born, can't break away.......yet,
The exuberance of youth keeps us seeking the truth
many others have walked this land 'fore our birth
to follow others footsteps just in trust and goodfaith
makes having some brains a bit of a waste........
Your loyalties tell you my people don't lie
they consider my heart, my home, so never ask why
tis a quandry for you because deep in your soul
they taught you success comes from having a goal......
To remember the reasons you cling to your views
in face of the obstacles and the life you abuse
One foot placed in front so the other must follow
steps that most surely guide you into tomorrow.
It is a night of change, of challenging things
so swift, so smooth, creeping in through a groove,
around the corner, past the gate, on and on
could not wait, nor hestitate, wilst not be late.
On steady, upward upward, climbing still
tis the wind wafting ore an aroma more,
or no, like a fog swift and chill, seeping still
the cold, the cold, the bitter cold.
A finger pointing crooked and bent
a shadow sent across the ground
moving swift, as night comes on,
then once more gone, the air is still.
The sound was shrill from whence it came,
back again, now calm once more, even score,
and all that bent and trashed about,
has leveled out, softly shut the door.
How's the Weather?
I guess it could have been sunny,
but it decided to rain
keeps the grass growing greener
out on the plain
and the puddles are welcome
to that family of ducks
but my lawn mower gets rusty
so I just put it up..
The kids don't mind
staying in for another day
they read books and try their best
to stay out of my way
my work is my best when the skies
turn dark and forlorn
but I get so emotional when the sky
is tattered and torn.
The Magnolia has one blossom,
wonder what happened to the rest
my mind dwells on things
others would just take in jest
got to bring my thoughts back
to my world day to day
can't keep the kids off in the distance
forever at bay.
Yes, the sky is definitely thinking
ominous thoughts on this day
the windchimes have long since tinkled
merrily in play
what's brewing out there now
makes the clothes dance on the line
time to batten the hatches
and shut down the computer one more time.
I floated by on wings of time
till nothing left that once was mine.
I closed my heart, I shut my eyes
I missed out on life, was no surprise.
You can't go back through a one way door,
can't reclaim youth, nor shave the score.
Your dress rehearsal, your curtain call
just one chance, one maiden ball.
Whispered voices close by my ear,
saving grace we all go here.
Remember, just one grab at life's brass ring
one wide eyed look at everything.
Life be so precious, for all we got
the memory of what we have not?
Blessings come both great and small
life's simple pleasures that we have all.
My Grandmother read alot of poetry to me when I was young. And what she didn't read, she quoted from memory. For as long as I can remember if it were put to rhyme, I loved it. She has inspired my love of poetry, my love of flowers, and a love for nature in general. Grandma passed on more than 20 years ago, but I still write a lot of poetry with her in mind.......
The beauty of the evening sky just before sunset. There is nothing to compare. As I was driving down the road on my way home from Baton Rouge, I had to stop the car and take a picture. This is a common sight here, but I never get tired of looking at it. I will stop what I am doing and go out on the back porch when I am at home, take my cup of coffee with me, and settle back to watch the sunset. There is no greater peace to be found anywhere.
Sunset on the Bayou
Crimson splashed across skies
purple cloak of night.
Sun put to slumber wrapped
in eves quilted softness.
Capture the moment
so fleeting, you blink
just one sweep of
soft lashes, eyes open
the curtain of fire
turns to cool embers
floating on seas,
azure, the color
Forest's Live Stage
I sit in a daydream,
the wind gently
talking to the trees.
Their answer, a shudder,
of limbs all a flutter,
they bend, they sway,
as if to say,
out of my way.
Enthralled, I hear
Each has their own part.
Birds must be heard,
a chirping word,
a song, a trill,
always gives me a thrill,
a sound so shrill.
And so I raptly stare at
another grand display,
this forest's living art.
Enchanting and so alive,
bees leave their royal hive,
the toad, a fox,
bugs underneath those rocks,
all actors in nature's cinema box.