BIsForPoetry

In summer, I lay in my yard. Looking at silver-tinged clouds, A sapphire sky, Emerald grass. And I see myself In a pool of hose water. Me and my reflection, The only out of place things On nature's colorful summer canvas. In autumn, I run in my yard. Through drifts of Amber, gold, red, orange, Picking ruby apples, And I stare at myself In a pool of rainwater. Me and my reflection, The only out of place things On nature's firy autumn canvas. In winter, I dig in my yard, White and silver, Gray and the fleeting blue shadows In a winter wonderland. And I look at myself In a pool of ice water. Me and my reflection,

Poets gift their words. The words that come from deep inside. Their hopes. Their dreams. Their sorrows. Their joys. Their loves. Their passions. Their frustrations. Their triumphs. When they are home. And when they have yet to arrive. When they are lost and found. Their hearts and minds Immortalized in song. Their lives. Opened up. The writer's soul Opon this page. For you. All for you.

The dark. We hide from the dark. We fear the dark. What is beyond the light? Out side the nightlight, A monster lurks. The dark before the known world, The dark beyond death and decay, The dark behind the end of the world. We contemplate, But not deeply. Do we look to the galixy, To all exestence? If we do, We get lost. Our tiny awareness overwhemed. Better to focuse On this world.

Writers are enlightened. No one can understand the world. No one can tame the wild. And writers understand that. We live for thoughts, But no one is willing To let their mind think Of deep things, Of dark things, The big black space outside the mind Is big enough to get lost in If you wander it too much. And No One Wants To Get Lost.

Gentle raindrops kiss my face, And a cool, fresh breaze blows. I lift my face to the heavens And I breath again. My life returns In a single burst of light From a lightning flash. I see a tree bend in the roaring wind, And I join the wind, Dancing through the countryside. And I waltz with the rain.

Poems come fast and furious. I don't have time, But they call out to me. I must stop, Must write, Must set the words free. Make the paper sing, Make it fly, Make it come alive. If I choke them down, Forget them, Lose them, Then I will be a murderer

In a world of blind people, I am the only one who can see. Imagination is dying. Am I the only one who cares? People rein in imagination And kill fanciful dreams. Magic soon will not exist, For people are killing it. Disbelief makes magic wither. I watch helplessly As the tyrants kill the dreams.

What is my dream? To make words resonate. To make them stick, And make you think. That is my dream. To make things happen, To make you feel, To make hidden wounds heal. That is my dream. To lead the world in a giant throng, To encourage them in joyous song. To break the chains And set you free, That is what the dream can be.  

As I mender through you, Reading my privet work, I realize something. You are my heart notebook. You contain my life Within your pages. My thoughts. With you, I have ignorance. My thoughts come in floods, Or in trickles. My frustrations. My hopes. My loves. My dreams. My sorce of freedom. Are contained in you. My poems are my life. And you are too.