The way of the wind arises,
Simple yet adorned in noiseless rage,
Conquering rays of mountain and trees,
As leaves flay and whine, worshipping his stern command.

And the wind calls in wonder, staring and stirring,
Raining its print on characters of lonely thorns,
A symbol of justice- silent victorious wave.
Listen, for your answers are upon you.

Words, like seeds of kindness sown, bloom into songs that grace our days,
As stories, like rivers flowing free, carry our hearts through life's maze.
We offer up our vulnerable selves, like fragile flowers unfurling,
Grasping for connection's gentle hand, learning love's eternal swirling.

I'm so bad
when I want to learn something.
I'm relentless
and my hours
are often insane,
even early in the morning.
I'm so aware of this.
I try to be as
understanding as I can be,
but my desire
to get it right
simply overcomes me.

Lucky for me
I'm surrounded by
angelic souls
who continue to
give me the time
despite this.

Indeed,
Bruce called me
a "gogetter",
and maybe
this is exactly what I am.

A whisper of bone, a sudden descent,
The world tilted sideways, her strength almost spent.
A fall, a fracture, a body betrayed,
The doctor's grim words, a future unmade.

They pieced her together, with glue and with care,
A delicate puzzle, fragile and rare.
"You might not walk straight," the whispers did say,
But a fire within her refused to obey.

Darkest Hour.....

At my darkest hour, in calmness I dwell,
Listening to the wordings of my soul....
Yeah! a dialogue conversation between me, myself and I....
Dealing with that pressure that nobody knows..
But,
if truly the heart can unfold the passion of love..,
but each scars refuse to let go. A trademark of love.,..
Just need to flash myself a smile and fire up every emotions away from a mile.

Reflecting on your absence
caused me to consider a list
of a few the things I cannot do:

Sort the colors of the wind.
Count the water in my hand.
Or, ask for the sommelier at Denny's.
We always laughed about that.

Knowing all of this to be true,
I would add another item to my list:
Remembering the sound of your voice.
I can see it now, but cannot hear it.
And I always listened. I listened to all of it.

Rainbows are like whisps of dreams,
calling out to draw me inside.
When we sleep our fears betray us
leaving us empty inside.

I wander dark streets and passageways.
Not knowing just what I am looking for.
The people that line city streets
have empty faces and eyes!

No one seems to care anymore.
Their love for me has been taken!
When the sun comes up in the morning.
No one remains to befriend me!

Such a sullen evening,
as though the stars are provoked
by one another,
and the moon is disenchanted so,
turning its face toward infinity.

There is a foul odor taunting
the bitter air. It snaps and licks
the darkness until all energy is pilfered
away, and even sound is too fearful
to breathe, to utter, to open its haunted mouth.

There was a poem
written in his eyes

even before I knew
of such things.

I, the little girl always searching
for words and meaning,

saw his language there,
the beauty and balance of life,

the quietude of few words
unfolding like blankets, rivulets,

mantles of verse and rhyme,
untangling a sadness I

could never understand, making
the world a kinder place, delivering

inspirations and courage as this
child wandered into her dreams.

Silently small snow flakes fall
from far above the poplars' crown
as I walk this sylvan path
a mile or so outside town.

They slowly cover up the duff
and the sleeve of my old coat
as they join with their brethren
at the end of their final float.

Soon I come to where cedars grow thick
sheltering the ground beneath.
I carelessly step on a dry stick
whose loud snap makes me grit my teeth.