Quiet now...
in the wake
after such a tornado
of impassioned night,
of anger turned ingrown...
Her huge green eyes stare
(without) seeing,
forever on a fixed point.

I see the lost intelligence
fly away unfettered.
Once, she was a brilliant
tactician. Her downfall
was assuming sanity
where there was none!

3 a.m. actually, it's 3:39
I'm awake and I wonder why?
I'm searching for a reason
so tired, I want to cry

A special number, is it?
I think it may portend
a time, a date, whatever
I have questions without end

I wonder if I've missed
something putting this to rest
I feel I am forgetting
although I've done my best

Why should these numbers
mean so much to me?
Are they magical, these digits
Like nine, is made by threes.

My smile isn't full, it doesnt
go to a full crinkle like an
evil entity is stopping it

Holding my emotion I'm
not allowed to have. I
know It's psychological the

hardest thing to be is a human
being.The older I get I have cared
less , because I know no nothing lasts

I guess I dont love myself or I see
no point of existence or both ?. I'm
getting uglier, stiffer my mind is slower.

Time with family
Never to be forgotten
Lives on forever

Regarding Mister Toad,
he’s burdened with a heavy load.
His belly’s round and fat.
He knows just where the bugs are at.
Serve em’ up, dead or alive.
He doesn't care about all that.
They're right there for the pickin.
To him they’re all just finger lickin.
And when he hops along back home.
He’ll hunker down in the muddy ground
and dream of things forlorn and lonely.
Content to sleep with worms and bones.

The Wick
Written by Kelly Ann Wilson

We are but a candle
With the wick already cut
We’re born and it starts burning
And that will be all the time we’ve got

At first it burns quite slowly
It’s so very fresh and new
As time goes by, we come to learn
The candle burned down as we grew

I think maybe all we can hope
As we go through our years
Is to bring some light and warmth
To the world
While we are here

Written December 3, 2023
© 2023 Kelly Ann Wilson

written twelve years ago
when yours truly about two score
and twelve years old,
and financial fiasco
about twenty six weeks
before being scalloped
courtesy villainous fraudster
otherwise known as scam artists,
blithely, glibly, and pliantly
fleeced with shear trickery
my coveted nest egg.

Here
Written by Kelly Ann Wilson

There may not be a painting of me hung in a museum
Or a song that someone wrote about me on the radio.
It could be that no school is ever built in my name.
The story of my life may not play on the silver screen.

But fallen leaves were crushed beneath my feet.
My hands planted small seeds.
I skipped rocks that settled into riverbeds.
My initials were carved into birch bark.

I left a mark.
I was here.

Written November 11, 2023
© 2023 Kelly Ann Wilson

As by the crackling fire I sit,
Outside my window, street lamps lit,
Around each lantern a rosy glow
Illuminates the falling snow.

Stockings hung from the mantle tell
A story of the children; we know it well.
Each one, their name a’glitter in gold,
A Christmas morning delight to behold.

Beneath the tree, its branches adorned
With twinkling lights and treasures more,
Bright, colored packages, with ribbons and bows,
Bring wonder and anticipation for young and old.

Peaceful harmony,
Bridging gaps, healing old wounds,
True Christmas joy.