• Never-Ending Dandelions

    A dandelion
    is a weed
    looking harmless
    even beautiful.
    Still a weed
    overtaking the grass
    choking out
    all other life.

    Memories of you
    are dandelions
    spreading rapidly
    overpowering my mind.
    Taking root in all
    facets of my brain
    weeding my garden always
    with every breath I take
    you still live in…Read More

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    • Hi Curly Grace. It’s amazing how someone occupies our minds. There they are, whether we want them there or not. Hopefully, your “Dandelion” is a welcomed “weed”.

    • Brilliantly expressed – I must weed my garden after that, before your poem infests my mind! HJx

      • Thank you, Harriet‑Jacqui. May your garden stay clear, and your kindness keep blooming.

        • Between writing and marketing my books, I grow-my-own fruit & veg on a plot next to the forest, the village cricket pitch and tennis club. Weeding my plot is just like painting The Forth Bridge (in Scotland , I live in England). As soon as I finish weeding it’s time to start all over again!

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    W E N S

    W E N S   west of east is north, where air and water meet and ice flows south, melting. elephants are learning to swim.   east of west  is south, where fire and earth meet and wolves, chasing their tails, must shed their skin.   north of south is west where air blackens in dense...

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    • A directional poem…that’s so cool.

    • There’s a deeply spiritual feel to this. An interconnectedness that ties all things to each other. For some reason it makes me think of the book Fifth Sacred Thing. So much more than the surface shows

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    Love Sonnet LXXVIII

    Love Sonnet LXXVIII   Color defines our world, bold, defiant colors that tells the story of our lives. We are loud in our brilliance,   alive in our textures, and warm in the way we move to the music found as color is bent as it   travels across Time. There was...

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    Love Sonnet LXXVII

    Love Sonnet LXXVII   The road is pockmarked with craters caused by bombs and rain. I travel this highway in search of   my home and you. But, Yaraa, it’s a long way home, and I’m tired, full of spiraling pain, seeing too much death   scattered along the roadside; rotted...

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    • this leaves me a bit sad about what happening around the world. The bomb leaving there notice that they were there. Nicely written

  • IN SEARCH OF CONSCIOUSNESS

    I want to hear the sky speak
    of birds flying,
    of being blue.
    Hear of the Sun’s solar flares
    and its encompassing heat.
    I want to hear the sky mention
    the Earth’s crying rivers
    sing the songs of understanding.
    So why do they want me
    Comatose?
    Insane?
    Confused about where
    we have come from?
    ~~~
    I want to…Read More

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