The Clichés of Chick Flicks

oil and water
polarized
irritants
under the skin

back to back
stiff shouldered
defiance

anger’s passion
bursts into flame
consuming walls
of separation

melting away
divisions
igniting
love’s fire

sealed with a kiss

always meant
to be

same old story
same old lie

Love Unseen

In wooden glades of mossy green
with barren feet she ran between.
Sensing call that touched her heart
to follow paths this voice did chart.

Of whom it came, and who was he,
that moved her from her home to flee;
this answer she did not contain,
but the strength of it, it did not wane.

Standing now within that heather glen,
his sense of presence she felt again.
Spirit being, his form so undefined,
His words of love, heard in her mind.

They danced within his spirit realm
not confined to mortal sight.
No need to touch of fleshly hands,
their spirits strongly woven tight.

And as the sun did start to rise,
tears of sadness filled her eyes.
For once again she must let him go,
his presence lost– in day’s new glow.

Published in: on September 3, 2010 at 8:49 am  Comments (1)  
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Midnight Whispers (Acrostic)

M oon beams dance on the tree tops
I n fanciful dresses of lavender lace.
D reams float about on silver clouds
N ever quite coming to a place of rest.
I ndigo sky sparkles with glittering stars,
G iggling like little girls gathered for a dance.
H eavens are lit for this midnight fiesta;
T winkling members of constellations
W atching as the players gather below.
H oot owls signal the first arrivals,
( I mpetious imps of legend and lore)
S atyrs and fawns come prancing their hoofs,
P ixies scamper about under the leaves,
E lves and their maidens in gossamer gowns
R eveling to the music of flute and pipe.
S ongs of fairyland being sung in the night

Published in: on July 21, 2010 at 2:12 pm  Leave a Comment  

Visions from the Pillow’s Nest

 Schleich Elf Floral Umbrella
Of fairies and elves and unicorns,
of fair maidens and knights of honor,
of grand battles and great adventures,
is the land where my head does rest.

Rolling hills of the plushest green,
tall forests of the grandest oaks,
rivers winding through the dale,
bright setting of sun in the west.

Strong stone castles high on the hill,
straw roofed cottages along the way,
taverns and inns for the way-farer,
in this land I reside as a guest.

The flute and the harp are playing,
with tambourine salting the rhythm,
the balladeer sings us his story
of the heroes upon their quest.

All this is played out before me
as the afternoon sun is setting,
with casing of lace trimmed linen
robing the straw of pillow’s nest.

Published in: on May 6, 2010 at 2:45 am  Comments (2)  
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