Dead & Dying—Trees & Dreams
My branches spread out sideways
as well as up & down.
Lying flat upon my back—
my roots in air & ground
Oh, what a massive storm
that tempest must have been,
whooshing through—intense, it blew
against my chest & chin.
I marvel at the Summer sky, so blue above my head.
Fading thoughts, and parting shots, until I know I’m dead.
Eyes of Hope
I saw a man bound in chains,
his sentence: to be killed.
He'd been captured, called a renegade,
blamed for the crimes of his friends
and alone in being captured,
for he would not deal death
to one of his fellow men.
They said his heart was faint--
a coward, no less, was he
and with ugly words they paint
him yellow as can be.
Yet he did not yell out like a coward,
their taunts he did not heed,
and he went along with them
to his death silent, oh so silently.
I did not know how this could be,
Til he raised his eyes
and with them spoke to me...
T'was his eyes that jolted me...
Those eyes of deep determination,
colored with love and tenderness,
filled with sorrow and with joy,
with firm resolve and gentleness.
Those eyes which danced with abandon
the structured waltz of wild rhythm,
a harmony of fire and humility,
a perfectly choreographed ballet
of passion and serenity.
Those eyes which said to me:
"I am in body shackled,
but my soul could never be.
For all I know and all I do
comes from a deep wellspring
of hope and love within me--
and these cannot be shackled,
and so my soul is free."
T'was braver, I truly now believe,
to suffer for the sake of love,
to go to death and never see
the victory he dearly dreamt of--
I saw within those eyes of hope
he was convinced in mind and soul
that it would be won some day,
that the reign of violence then would fall,
and that the sacrifice he made for love,
would triumph for the sake of all.
Why do I write?
Because sometimes, even in paradise, it rains.
Whether the rain is literal, today it is raining heavily, or just in my head.
Writing helps untangle the skeins of thoughts, disentangle things that are pure fantasy, ----the bad tempered unicorn can get herself out of the holly bush--, from those that need my attention.
To remind myself that I am privileged, I am literate, have access to technology. I can afford a roof over my head, food on my table and still find time to write down those stories that bounce around in my skull.
To share my stories, it's a great buzz if somebody likes one of my little tales, if I get a like or a comment, or if I read someone else's piece and think yes I get it! They think the same way as I do.
I cannot afford to self publish, I don't write well enough to enter competitions, but sharing my writing on prose gives me great pleasure.
As children, we're taught
To fear the night
Where monsters dwell
With deadly bite.
Hunting and prowling
In shadows deep
While we rest behind locks,
Never taught to fear
The beasts within,
Wrapped up in skin.
Beware the humans
With demented hearts
Because not all monsters
Dwell in the dark.