Meant For
(Note: this is basically just a bunch of my musings written down on a paper; to me it doesn't seem too well put together, but I guess it's all right!)
A Lonely Poem
These frozen nights
Are telling stories
Of dead ends and broken bones
Our dark weather
Makes us so alone
And we lament for being mislead
But it's really the morning we dread
And the good it brings
Because we still cling
To the dark.
In solitary we're sleeping
Divided we're dreaming
That things can still change
For the better
These heavy clouds
Let loose the water
That washes us away
We're praying for tomorrow
And today, we're still hoping
That things will get better
Imitation
Rapid feet are spinning, stepping, dancing in beautiful patterns
The will of the dance master is creating complex wonder
No ordinary dance, this, spun recklessly among staring stars
This is the dance of life weaving across the dance floor of time
It is not only stars that stare in awe, for they are joined by gazing eyes
Eyes so desperately trying to discern the impossible trace of the master’s feet
While hesitant feet below step forward, only to falter and miss
Missing even the simplest step of the master, who seems to slow his frantic pace
Through the Mist
In a wide, golden field that stretched out until touching the border of a grim forest, lay a large town, in the midst of which rose triumphantly a castle with four, majestic towers. A cold fog lay on and around the metropolis, enveloping it in a thick cloud which caused even the castle's high turrets to lie hidden from sight. Although no sound came from behind the walls and the air was still, yet it was a dreadful quiet, one of horrible expectation, not tranquility.
Kaleidoscope
Colors exploding rapidly;
patterns ever swirling.
Repeating the same one never;
sparkling stars sprinkled across black leather.
Imagination going wild;
colors dancing like a child.
Rippling like a brook;
an illustration from a book.
Splashes brash and bold,
glittery and cold.
Gently, swiftly swirling;
rapidly, wildly twirling.
Vivid and bright;
meteors in the night.
Every shade represented;
in this art gallery presented.
patterns ever swirling.
Repeating the same one never;
sparkling stars sprinkled across black leather.
Imagination going wild;
colors dancing like a child.
Rippling like a brook;
an illustration from a book.
Splashes brash and bold,
glittery and cold.
Gently, swiftly swirling;
rapidly, wildly twirling.
Vivid and bright;
meteors in the night.
Every shade represented;
in this art gallery presented.
Autumn
The pretty leaves come floating down
Upon the chilly breeze,
Reminding me of butterflies
Dancing with the bees.
The trees are all a red, orange and gold;
Nature's firework display.
Splashes of color shine brilliantly
Around me as I play.
But all too soon the snow comes down;
The trees all lose their sheen.
At least in my mind I have secure
A gorgeous Autumn scene.
Aerial
Soaring, flying,
gliding on the wings of the wind.
Rising higher,
than the very clouds.
Wind rushing,
ruffling my hair.
I scream,
ecstatic, turning downwards;
Free-falling,
for hundreds of feet;
Pulling up
at the last second,
Flying.
Whipping around pinnacles of rock,
tall spires reaching dead, frozen arms,
far up into the sky.
The thrill!
The adventure!
The joy!
It’s indescribable!
I hear a sharp sound,
gliding on the wings of the wind.
Rising higher,
than the very clouds.
Wind rushing,
ruffling my hair.
I scream,
ecstatic, turning downwards;
Free-falling,
for hundreds of feet;
Pulling up
at the last second,
Flying.
Whipping around pinnacles of rock,
tall spires reaching dead, frozen arms,
far up into the sky.
The thrill!
The adventure!
The joy!
It’s indescribable!
I hear a sharp sound,
Ms. Kelcey
When I lay awake in bed at night as a child I could always tell when it rained because I could hear the plop, plop, plop, of water droplets hitting the metal pan in the corner of my room. Every night the seconds would pass away with each drip until the day dawned, finding everything more gloomy and wet than the darkness of night even had revealed. And yet I always looked forward to the next day with the hope that it would find things better.
Another Brushstroke
Today, another brushstroke;
The artist poised,
With ever trembling pencil in his hand;
A rough, uneven canvas;
And so he sighs,
His strokes are like the shifting sand
Somehow the tones are different,
The picture wrong
The first intent somehow misplaced;
And though he tries with patience
He cannot claim
The lines which he first proudly traced
A Grandmothers Hands
A Grandmothers Hands,
So aged and feeble.
Rough like the sand,
And cracked with wrinkles.
A Grandmothers Hands,
Many years they’ve served,
They’ve brushed away tears,
The pain they have burned.
A Grandmothers Hands,
Wisdom they hold,
That built a home,
A family to mold.
A Grandmothers Hands,
So old and weak,
Are still used for God,
In worship to the King.
A Grandmothers Hands