Poems (Page 11)

The hands of an elder woman, dressed in black, holding a rosary while praying.

Her hair hung down in ashen curls,
on skin all snowy white.
Hazel eyes adorned her face,
her collar buttoned tight.

A rosary wrapped around her hands,
on which countless prayers were raised,
a gift from Mom, to a little girl,
that lasted all her days.

[continue]. . .

Black and white hand-drawn and inked artwork on fluorescent-green paper. A drawing of a young man (Cromwell Green) with his hands together in front of his face sits in front of a large moon. His forehead rests against his fists. Cromwell is dressed in black with three spiked wristbands on each wrist. His long, spiked hair hangs over his hands. His white eyes are devoid of pupils and irises.

Cowering in fear
a life without meaning
my purpose in vain
exist without feeling

I turn up the music
to the threshold of pain
drown out the voices
all shackled in chains

Don’t know where to go
there’s nowhere to hide
’cause you can’t run
from the monster inside

[continue]. . .

Image Credit: "Little girl and open book" from Kevin Carden

I relish the feeling of crisp new pages,
the scent of ink in the air.

Some, may speak of enchanted places.
A handsome prince, a maiden fair.

[continue]. . .

A woman dancing at the beach as the sun goes down over Bali, as seen from Gili, Indonesia.

Ever speaking of future,
my dreams I would share.
Oh the things I’d accomplish,
when I arrived there.

When at last I looked back,
it was then I did find,
my life was created,
one day at a time.

[continue]. . .

A volleyball net at sunset on a lakefront beach.

I’ve never been one for long goodbyes,
feigning sentiment that’s full of lies.
Our paths separate as we reason why,
time divides and friendships die.

[continue]. . .