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Children In Mourning





Virgin shrouds
Mourning wombs
Innocence cut short
Parents' lap
Empty broken
Shoulders weary
Eyes weighed
Bullets strayed
Nameless assail
Hopes frail.

When bombs fly
And sirens cry
Children cannot defy
They wonder if they 
Will live to see
Another dawn
Play and run all day long
And they wonder 
What the fighting is all about?
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Danseuse

Waltzing through air, this vision with beguiling delicate grace
Like a danseuse figure, poised, carving delicate grace.

A breeze gently embraces this fragile creature
touching nimble limbs, a limber accentuating delicate grace.

Sunlight streams iridescent on her lissome stance
symmetrically lithe and supple, flaunting delicate grace.

Rhythmic movements pattern fawn colored sand creations
nudging grass beneath, with a soothing delicate grace.

The boundless energy of this dainty, flighty antelope
as she ambulates gracefully, epitomizing, delicate grace.

Elusive, mysterious, uninhibited, she basks in nature’s fold
within a cosmos, spangled with, pleasing, delicate grace.

Her vulnerability fills me with foreboding and much fear
of bloodthirsty predators, massacring delicate grace.

Finding The Rhyme

FeaturedFinding The Rhyme
I send my words into the sky
Watch them rhyme and then fly.

I close my eyes and feel the air
Forgotten words lost without care.

I take the letters in my hand
And put them on a poetic stand.

I scribe the words on a starlit scroll
Watch words take shape as night unfolds.

My dreams drift from a soul that bleeds
In the blue of ink, fractured lines freed.

I run my hands over my words
My fingers feel the emotions stirred.

With tender ease, the poetry glides
From my page to your eyes.
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Moonchild

I am a child of the earth
Raised by the stars in the sky
Tended by the moon as I sleep
Scars of the world clothe me
Her wounds rich in history.

I am bathed by the tears of the clouds
When it rains, the wind howls-in my ears
Apocalyptic....
When I cry-the earth soaks up my tears
A piece of my soul
Turning to dust;
And like dust, I rise
A storm of stardust
On moonstruck madness..

The sky calls out my name at dawn
Sparking the sun on my breast..

I am a child of the earth
The darkness and the light
The truth, the lie
Sorrow and joy
It's all there in the
Pen that I wield.


#free verse
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Poet And Muse

I write from my soul to yours
I undress my heart to show you my scars.

Crimson-tinged words need no pages
Scattering into synapse spaces.

The pain spills as blood blue ink
Dipped in the inkwell of syllabic sync.

Hold my words close to your heart
They are my soul's oxygen chart.

I am a poet who paints with her pen
To frame my page with your name again and again.

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Magnolia Reveries

Alphabets become jeweled figurines
Like studded stars drip-dropping
Sparkling confetti on a magnolia vignette…
I sit in quiet solitude breathing in the solace of sepia memories…crocheting a borealis in my solstice day
Syllables of Monet hues flame
A potpourri of poesies
Galaxy’s champagne
Serenades my rosette fire
Kaleidoscopic eloquence
Needling a mantle of chrome waltzes
A phonographic euphoria
Etching a musky interlude
Of shared tears
Radiating scarlet of an Amaryllis quill…

Featured

Magnolia Reveries

Alphabets become jeweled figurines
Like studded stars drip-dropping
Sparkling confetti on a magnolia vignette...
I sit in quiet solitude breathing in the solace of sepia memories...crocheting a borealis in my solstice day
Syllables of Monet hues flame
A potpourri of poesies
Galaxy's champagne
Serenades my rosette fire
Kaleidoscopic eloquence
Needling a mantle of chrome waltzes
A phonographic euphoria
Etching a musky interlude
Of shared tears
Radiating scarlet of an Amaryllis quill...

Featured

Along Came A Spider

Along came a spider
An eight legged rider.

In her web, I espied a fly
Other insects came to say goodbye.

The spider's sting operation
Causing pain sensation.

Spidey's silken seduction
Makes no cause for affection.

An intrepid with her labyrinth
Her stealth is her fingerprint.

She never trips in her net
Her web is her bayonet.

She walks and stalks a silky trail
Rigging a web to catch the frail.

Spiders are seen and never heard
They wield a most unlikely sword.
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Poetry: The perfect noun

If I had wings to fly
I would go to the scarlet moon
On the wings of a diamond night
Trying to live again
Because the poet in me cannot die
I would go in search of my muse
I would go in search of eternity..

Under an ancient sky 
That spills the sun in my hair
Wildflowers in my eyes
Poetry on my lips
When the wind sings on my skin
Broken heartstrings kindle a lilt
Clouds weep into the blue
My soul goes sleepless
As the moon and sun wake together
Feeding my soul with ink
In a silence that goes ballistic
A quill that needs to be tranquilized
I idolize thoughts that spring
From poetry..
My mind stops hurting
I crash my hourglass..

Dear January

Dear January, you have been doing this every year. And you look great. The beginning always looks great. You have only come to make this year look better.

the calendar 
in January's chill
spring blossoms

Dear January, speak poetry and embrace me with your eloquence. Make spring bloom luminescent ...make what is empty, dark....effervescent. let nectar flow from lips of flowers and let butterflies carry their fragrant dreams into mountains,  hills,  brooks ,streams, oceans and high seas spreading over earth..

Speak to me
Oh January
Tell the moon to twirl me silver, sun ignite my fire..let the stars wrap their light. .my eyes sparkle the constellations..

Wounded fingers quiver
Broken whispers of fear 
Let the wind be a balm 
To heal the sighs 
Of disease frightened people.



She Was Him, He Was Her

Poetry Partners # 29

She was him
He was her
They were one
They were free
She had eyes that knew
His heart’s glow
A smile that filled the space
When spring made its way to their eyes
In the zephyr’s abracadabra
All the places they were at a loss for words
They were cinder sparked by a flame that grew
Fed by warmth
Touch of a look
Running like blood in their veins

He had the wisdom of a young ink
Unstolen by time
Knowledge eternal
On eternity’s edge
Searching for a lost song
Their gently heaving breath finds the pulse of possibilities

golden shovel poem by ben Alexander of ‘The Skeptic’s Kaddish’

(in blank verse)

Temperature past the versing point, they
melted into glowing lava and were
blown with force through revelation's cinder
cone, as thick, boiling comprehension sparked
in their luminous core. Only then, by
quirk of fate or set destiny, did a
zephyr flow from their lips, fanning the flame
stolen for mortals from Olympus that
birthed human knowledge and steadily grew
across the face of Earth, as people fed
it with aspirations unstolen by
time. As one, they filled the space with soft warmth,
spring smiles, and the teasing, caressing touch
of their eternal words, the lost song of
which they two composed together in a
volume of abracadabras, its look
fraying and worn, with lines of script running
across its pages; letters slanted like
sloping volcanos and inked with goat blood.
Freely, crafting word worlds and timelines in
sync with one another's pulses and their
truth, they felt eternity in their veins.

https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/01/02/she-was-him-or-he-was-her/

Arely goes herbs

Once there  lived a man named Arely
Who grew himself a pot belly
He sowed wild oats in his stomach pot
Which thrived into a flowery Plot
His tummy became flora fauna friendly

They called him a tarzan heritage
The tourists came to see his advantage
Hé became a walking jungle
The herbivores came to mingle
Gobbled him up as herbage .