Favorites (Page 4)

Poets (a poem)

Let us begin to write with colour.
Measuring beats with the stroke of a pen.
Not all are meant to share with another,
but help us recall lost moments again.

[continue]. . .

A dying tree, its bark peeling, exposes the dried-out trunk beneath. It is the first in a long row of chestnut trees that line a country road.

Trees (a poem)

Looking at trees
that line the drive
while long in perdition
my heart it cries

Enclosed in its wounds
her visage it lies
the inside is dead
not but skin left alive

[continue]. . .

The Broken (a poem)

We all have scars
that tell their tales
of times we hurt
and those we failed.

[continue]. . .

Neglected tombstones at an old graveyard in the midst of a foggy Spring morning in Southern Michigan.

In Morning Mists (a poem)

Swirling, twisting, turning thoughts,
where life and imagined meet.

Long forgotten graveyard plots,
and grass beneath my feet.

[continue]. . .

A blurred and stylized image of business people walking through a city subway at rush hour.

That Which is Written (a poem)

Though starkly intimidated
perhaps overly concerned
with what others think
still I reach out to you

Creativity in search of comfort

[continue]. . .

I am a dog lying in the doorway, a casual observer of clouds, filled with excitement, I run, spin, fall, arise, and do it again. I am an explorer of worlds, paddling down a stream. seeing old places as though new. filled with life and thought.

[continue]. . .