It Does Not Make Sense
June 30, 2009
It is hard to explain the wind in the trees and the sun on my face.
It is impossible to tell you how the birds sing and how the grass grows.
It is incomprehensible to say I want to love you.
It does not make sense.
In My Garden
June 19, 2009
A forsythia
to remind me how to love
in case I forget.
A weeping willow
company when sorrow breaks
a symbol of hope.
Blue forget me nots
the root of my exsistance
I will not forget.
9 Roberts Drive
June 19, 2009
When I was walking to 9 Roberts Drive on a summer evening,
that happened to be precisely on the 18th of June 2009.
I tasted cherry blossoms, lilac and forsythia that impregnated the air
with sweet rich hues of sensuous aromas.
I felt the sun caressing my face, accentuating the freckles on my nose.
I heard the wind, singing softly to children playing the day away.
As I arrived at 9 Roberts Drive, I realized I was smiling.
I was happy.
I am happy.
A Paper Haiku (Flimsy)
June 14, 2009
mindless paper dolls
traitorous paper people
they are all the same
Tearing Us Apart
June 14, 2009
24 Not a word not a sound.
Consideration.
22 A self centred act.
Humility.
20 . . .
17 Manipulation.
Reality.
Please Don’t
June 14, 2009
Red powder.
Blue powder.
White powder.
Please don’t.
Red liquid.
Blue liquid.
White liquid.
Please don’t.
Red candy.
Blue candy.
White candy.
Please don’t.
It’s Always The Hardest Part
June 14, 2009
In an old room with old paperbacks.
Thinking of old troubles and old memories.
Try letting go.
We The Wildflowers
June 10, 2009
So now what will become of us?
A faded memory a black and white photograph.
The pain, tears and the sadness we shared,
was nothing more then ripples in a pool?
Starting off small and expanding bit by bit,
no curtains would hide our sorrow.
What of the smiles, laughter and happiness we shared?
Maybe they were just jolly jesters masquerading and parading.
As if to bring us hope.
what will become of us now?
That you are sure we have no future?
You will run and hide and leave all ravens far behind.
So they cannot peck and pick in the deep corners of your mind.
Not quite covered in cob webs but is blanketed by a thin layer of dust.
Maybe of the magic kind.
Your mind had never been so clear to me.
Are we nothing but two wildflowers, simply plucked from our grassy fields.
With no choice but to admit defeat at the end of the road?
I may have been beaten, abused and used before but you have no right.
So now what will become of us?
friend or foe.
