Beauty is a baby’s eye
a mother’s kiss
a child’s ‘why?’
a sister’s special loving art
a father’s hands
a brother’s heart.

Beauty is a farewell wish
a fervent prayer
a child’s bliss
a smile after many tears
a memory
a brand new year.

Beauty is an aged nun
a faithful priest
a task well done
youth’s untroubled hearty laugh
a quiet church
an epitaph.

It seems like so many girls change themselves so much; they dye their hair, plaster their faces with makeup and blush till you can't see the skin, cover their eyelashes with mascara to make them look twenty times fuller than they really are, draw lines on their eyelids, pluck out hairs from their eyebrows, poke holes all the way up their ears and fill them up with earrings, put even more through their noses, lips, and eyebrows (which makes me sick), coat their lips in vibrant lipstick, then cram themselves into tight jeans, short T-shirts with obnoxious, rude, insulting writing on the front

Just so you know,
there’s a place that I go
when I am alone.
A place I have claimed
for my own.

A place seldom seen
but in the echo of a dream,
an otherworld prize
for those with the right
sort of eyes.

Where shadows and light
diffuse day and night,
a forest of gold
where I think of the tales
I’ve been told.

Where myth lingers yet
in those who do not forget.
Where the years pass unstained
and the phantoms of time
still remain.

Dreams. I have so many. I know that my long list of dreams is not grounded in reality. Yet I dream on.

I dream of my own upscale apartment in downtown Manhattan, decorated in a simple yet modern style. Reality tells me that few people are able to afford nice housing in Manhattan.

I dream of having a tame cheetah. Reality tells me that it is illegal to own such an animal.

I dream of traveling everywhere...the Amazon, New Zealand, Antarctica, the moon... Reality tells me that I may never see any of these places, and certainly not all of them.

*This short piece is dedicated to those who have asked themselves "why?" and, having received the answer, have decided to do something about it*

-----

They stand on the corner of a street, or maybe on a bridge or in a park. They may be picketing at a political convention, voicing their dissent. They may be at an inauguration showing their disapproval of the elected official. They may be simply spreading information, or possibly they are merely bored and have nothing better to do. It really doesn’t matter. They are there, and that is enough.

“It was the start of the Summer of the Late Rose. . .”

Silently he watched as the snow fell around him.

He held the white petaled rose in his hands, then sighed and tossed the rose on the cold ground, petals uniting with tears, snow, and stone.

Rays of light shown down from the heavens landing upon the wings of angels, the forms of saints, and stone.

Looking up he saw the sun, amid his tears he smiled gently, thought of her and listened.

Hear now the voices of angels crying.
Hear now the sound of the wind.
Watch as the sun is lost to darkness and all is gone.

Poetry has never been my strong point, but I still enjoy composing a few when I need some special way to put my thoughts and feelings down on paper. I also do not pretend to know all the technical aspects of writing poetry, so I'm sure that these three are filled with errors. They can be best described as my ramblings.

A Life to Live

Dreamers dream
A blank canvas
And paint it with words.
A picture created
With the tools of the mind -
Images drawn in faulty lines.
A small creation,
Only part of A Mind
Whom none fully comprehend.
Yet the dreamer
Dreams all barriers away,
And mortal man dances with the divine.
--

Well the title is what you might call "cliché" but it can't be helped at the moment. My brain doesn't get that creative when I have strep throat.

Bought you a winter scarf
You wore it outside
Like something alive
It gave me a start

I suppose
Winter never fails to mark our faces with desire.
I never felt it more than when I saw you carry in the fire.
They had shown every place to you to prove they're all the same--
They washed your hands with chemicals and said chemicals do not stain.
But tramping in, your hands were chapped and your wristwatch was set wrong.
The heaviness of gathering wood must have gathered you along.