ThunderheadThunderhead"It's storming in Chicago," calls the mother to her son,who already knows—he can see the thunderhead,black and towering, gliding above the corn fields.It's miles away now, in Illinois, but his Hoosier bloodstirs with the approach of another Midwestern storm.While she reflexively checks the radiofor tornado warnings, he runs between the cornstalks,feeling the first teasing breezes on the outskirtsof the front. The field is empty otherwise; the cardinalshave already found shelter, as have the pasture deer.She calls to him, but knows he is safe for now,and remembers what it was like to run through corn fields,letting the leaves slap against tanned arms and legs,tasting the ozone tang of the distant lightningand hearing, just barely, the tolling thunder.He thinks of glaciers he's seen in schoolbooks:slow, inexorable (though he does not know that word),and wonders if a glacier announces its coming, too,the way the storm air weighs down an afternoon.He s
I. peel apart my insides reveal the insidespetal by petal I fall apart in your hands
Poem - To FlyTo FlyTo fly is to feel,the breeze that's so real.From spreading your wings,to watching birds that sing.Watching the clouds,from way up high...looking at crowds,of geese in the sky.Wind in your hair,look down for a scare!Seeing the sights,below there are lights,that appear at night,feeling so right...Away from your troubles,don't need a stunt double!Try to fly,for feeling in the sky.Way up high,this isn't a lie.Watching sun-sets,from way up there...Sun-rise I've met,wind in my hair...Looking at nature,down below...You'll never know.How it feels...To fly...
Orgy of the FlowersSummer is upon usI can feel itI can smell itIn the orgy of the flowersAnd the fornication of light and soundIn the heat of the afternoonAnd the sting of Red TwilightIn the teardrops of the heavensI have shed no tears since my waterfall driedI hope I shan't ever againNor shall the cloudless skies of JulyI knowOnce the age old ritual is completeI will be free to bask in the sunTo laugh at my oppressorsTo cavort with the nightAnd sleep through the deadly sunriseTo think without discouragementAnd think of important mattersAs I mingle in the orgy of the flowersDance beneath Heaven's tearsWatch, transfixed, the fornication of light and soundWarm in the heat of Red Twilight
Winter's TenOne was the lonely mountain that held Winter at bay.Two were the couple trees that stood in Winter's way.Three were the meandering brooks that Winter froze first.Four were the small villages that Winter hit the worst.Five were the sacred stones that told of Winter's cheer.Six were the drunken men who took on Winter without fear.Seven were the maidens fair who prayed for Winter's leaving.Eight were the wizards wise who told of Winter's deceiving.Nine were the wizened crones who groaned with Winter's chill.Ten were the winter festivals where everyone ate their fill.Winter comes and Winter goes, full of grace and beauty.But beware the calm before the storm, for you'll soon see Winter's cruelty.
BlindI love this bleaknessThat shelters meLike sweet breath of glassCold on my faceI love this chillThis electric pulse insideLike no other feelingA pain I can bearThe wind calls, and draws,And exploits my soulMy tears sheltered deepAlabaster dreamsI try to survive the summerThe punishing heatMelts my bonesIt is time to go homeAnd yes, I may be blindBut I am safeThe world hides insideThe bleakness is mine
The Young WandererOne wanders,Lost in the world,Relations cut,Family burnt.Eyes curiously poke,From beneath the hood,And look about,The graceful wood.The baby Sasquatch,Awakes from a slumber,Climbs up,The growing lumber.
Writing test - Afternoon skyGolden sky realities hold hands over my soul, sliding their fingers through my heart, starlight clocks beating like toy soldier drums. Night swoops around me, like mountain rapids smashing their way into spring. The lid is closed on my jar, yet still I patiently wait, like a fly pausing for a spider.Somehow, my heart is soaring, a silver weather balloon on a moonlight scattered evening. Freedom is most certainly beyond even the merest brush of my fingers, but close enough that it can ignite me with a flame of hope and a scent of happiness. And the clouds flutter past, beautiful and lonely, reminding me that I am lost.Zoe AAge 1428/02/155:08pm
I Wish To Be With NatureI want to live upon a flower petalAnd taste the tang of honeyAnd sleep untouched in the bed of a rosebudAnd sneeze from pollen 'til it's funnyI want to soar on backs of buzzing beesAnd drink the tears of cloudsAnd touch the Earth with green fingertipsAnd give ants crumbs within their crowdsI want to shade myself with fallen leavesAnd chatter with the robins redAnd dig a nook between two rootsAnd find fine spider silk to threadYes, I want, and yes, I wishTo be with nature, I do insistBut though I try, I will never beAs small as a raindrop, a snowflake, a flea
It appears you don't have PDF support in this web browser. Download PDF