gray clouds moving in the February morning
like the breast of a dove mottled with
gnarled branches that appear to
wait for the day to day, or water to boil
electric kettles not working
dancing barefoot on an icy floor
and the dog sniffing breakfast
my cold fingers on the stove top switches
an enormous kettle of cold water finally
rustling about into a steaming cup of tea
Author's Note:
A very special thanks to Laura Elizabeth, Maddi, and Lucy Anne for commenting on the first poem. Let's see if these are any good xD
- These are not happy, sunshiney and warm-fuzzy feeling poems, just to clarify. They're more of a resentful or regretful tone, some drawing from bits and pieces of real life or other characters I've written about. Take each with your own grains of salt, all here for your own enjoyment.
-(1)-
It would be so. If the Shadow Man came at night, then day would be his shelter. If the dark harbored evil things then light would be his fortress. A king in his empty, empty castle. But there was no light here, not a scrap to be found or a sound to be hear. There was no color. It was as was.
MOST people believe that life in the Dark Ages were wonderful and adventurous. But some forget about the peasants, serfs and vassals. These were the ones who made the noblemen and kings so great. Peasants always were working, slaving and protecting them as they ate at their abundant tables, laughing at jesters and minstrels.
These are who they were:
First of all we must talk about the Feudal System.
If you go to the Fiction tab (or Poetry or Essay I assume) you will see that some people are WRITERS. I Have the word ASSOCIATE next to my name. What's that deal? Does it mean I've been here longer than some people? Does it mean I'm a better writer? (Would not have guessed that one.)
Does it mean I've been denied a request for writership and given a consolation position? (I actually haven't requested writership that I can remember.)
I don't have the answers to these questions. Sorry.
Comment with your theories (or conspiracies, or actual answers.)
“I’ll stay.” She said.
The Queen leant forward. “Are you sure? There is no going back now.”
Elise gulped. “It’s my destiny, isn't it?”
Her soft grey eyes searched Elise’s face. “Yes.” The Queen turned as if to follow Rilla out the door; then turned back. “Yes indeed; but remember my dear, that anything is possible; it’s all what you allow in your imagination.”
****
Back in the Gateway of Time, the female creature bent over the Glass of the Forseen.
"Arghh!" She cackled. "Tis the Chosen One, my lord! She said yes!"
She sang softly as she cradled the small boy. Her voice could not be called beautiful by any stretch of the imagination. It broke on the high notes and all but disappeared on the low ones. Yet it had that quality of love, which cannot be artificially produced. She sang to the child, feeling his warm body against hers, and felt she was beautiful.
Wind of Night
The house deep in the lonesome valley
Where a tired child once lay
Where a slumbering couple dreamed of happiness
Where darkness had come to abide
The walls once contained complete joy
A little boy with all his toys
The family wallowing in bliss
Ne’er expecting deaths’ cruel kiss
The wind howling a murderous tune
The trees cackling beneath it
The air was thick with palpable misery and woe
The child’s moans masked by the wind
True Follower
To understand a starving soul
To follow gentle prodding
To be compassionate to a man
To reach past a reputation
To be a true child of the lamb
That wolf in white, innocent apparel
That breaks through and steals
That hard hearted man full of hate
That never shows Christ’s love
That shows himself by his cruel works
Let us be true children of the Lord
Let us help the dying world
Let us show hope to the hopeless
Let us feed the weary man
Let us be the shining light in bleakness
JULIUS HELD THE FOOTBALL in his hand. He breathed slowly, praying his adversary would not leave him lying on the grass beaten and defenseless. His best friend, Mark, yelled at him: “TTTTHHHRRROW THE BAAAAAAAALLL!”