To you,
that separated your children
creating this wide orb of confusion,
take a bow oh great and wonderful never was ...

Your end is around the bend,
the smell has hit your uh-oh senses,
found you missing your wit,
hard isn't it
swallowing your own shit.

One day I'll pilgrim my way to you,
find your scent among the adders
and constrict your venomous spoutings.

Being a teenager is hard
So many things happen at once,
So many expectations and obligations.

At times I gather strength to go on
Or simply I break down,
Wanting to give up,letting go.

The are days when I need a hand
A hand to touch me,
And tell me that everything will workout.

Somedays I need a hug
A voice to tell me am loved,
And needed in this life.

Somedays I need a soft look
That tells me someone understands,
And I was not born by accident,
That I am in the right direction with my life.

The Moon.

The moon her yellow fingers, grasses light,
invisibly pale, white, underfoot a winter crunch,
a cloudless sky, the pastel globe afloat on the
blue moat of our castle home, as she in azure
heavens waked by dawn, a perfect sphere,
this october day, two thousand and eleven.

I know its last years! LuvAnn.

.
lay beneath the crest of a dream
troposphere grave
glean of a hot scene

the frost fire sheen

I
Oft there comes a wind to tell a tale,
and oft am I without the wherewithal,
to set my ship on voyage forth to sail
beyond the sight of sheets, where ink will fall.

But now, I must recite in measured verse
a tale, yet famous, but in me sublime.
I hope I do not make this tale too terse’
and spoil a song in less majestic mime.

So shall I tell the tale of Inklindon,
of merry inky folk and of their cares,
and when at length, my verse is spent and done,
I shall move on and leave you with my wares.

Do birds still sing at Gettysburg
in fields where Pickett made his charge
or is the weight of history there
.............too large?

I can't imagine cheerful quail
or scornful mocking birds
are tolerated at that place
where brave men screamed their final words.

And meadow larks don't belong there
where crows still silently fly by
recalling souls carried to elsewhere
by their forebears with tired sigh.

RITES OF PASSAGE

in the front parlor
on heavy purple
worn and bare
he sat
legs dangling
in the air
silent cries in dresses
sequenced black
passing by
wooden floors
that cracked
cigars and pin stripe
whispering in the back
blue chiffon and organza
in a mist sickening red
empty stomachs
stale coffee on the breath….
the touch of death.

Once there was a lovely land
'twas specifically so grand,
where a king ruled, with his queen, and the couple's prince;

they lived their lives without a care
for an even hand ruled so "fair",
such a great king had not ruled, ever since!

The young prince was coming of age
and minus squires and, his page,
he was given a quest to accomplish, on his own;

after there were two more 'morrows
he'd find the pond of double sorrows,
thus proving, he was now completely grown.

The passing…

As his head was writing of battles,
his heart ached for peace. He
longed for the comforts of his
mother’s Serge.

The Divas had eyes of reddest red,
they danced on the bodies of those
who were to be dead.
Stiletto heels scarred the skin so
horribly tight, their dance would
last well through this coldest night.

Glad you told us twas an acrostic
I was about to my a neck stick
but beauty lies in poetry
emotion ...

who says it must always rhyme
while composing an acrostic
you commit no crime
rhyme or no rhyme
it was acrostic
I wrote for quite some time
till someone told me
you are...
that is..
I was
an expert of the kind
now you all follow
the free verse
of Loved's mind...