The rambling poet
Broken hearted fool
I’ve thought about this to the point of losing my cool,
this empty life and it’s broken hearted fool,
sick of sitting in silence anticipating your return,
when I stop to think it really makes me burn,
One month, two weeks and three days
The way I’ve rationalized, it just leaves me amazed
If I found I could live without you, it just might be better
Then waiting on your phone calls, and your delinquent letters
Amongst this deep depression, I’ve forgotten to eat
I lay sniveling in my blankets, instead of standing on my feet
I feel my temperature rising, and I’m charbroiled in the heat
attempting to remind myself now, before I make myself sick
Life is like a rose with thorns sometimes you have to watch out for the pricks
Epiphany
There was a day before I awoke
within a dream this epiphany was spoke,
savor the seconds, minutes, and hours
appreciate the windstorms,
as well as the flowers
There will come a day,
that you will grow old
when life’s passed behind,
and it’s your turn to fold
But until then,
be responsible, have fun
live life in Gods plan,
but bask in the sun
Cause no willing harm,
to the creatures you see
and in the end,
in your fathers arms you will be.
Dedication to You
The world has thrown stones
when I’ve asked for flowers,
It’s given me snow,
when I need spring showers
The most beautiful thing,
it’s given me is you
with a heart of gold,
and love that is true
so today I collect stones,
the world has thrown
and use them to border,
the gardens we’ve grown
with delicate gold beauties,
and hybrids of blue
grown with the purest of love,
in dedication to you.
Mystic tales
It is told in forests deep at stroke
of midnight while mortals sleep
Elvin fairies turn from trees to
sing and dance upon the leaves
they play and feast with unicorns
drinking ale from beasts shed horns
all hands gather and prepare their feast
of buttered acorns and wildebeest
children play with golden Hawn
riding the backs of young tamed fawn
beside the bonfire they spin their tales
until the starlit night sky pales
quickly they run through brush and fern
As dawn now breaks they pose to return
The storyteller
To my 9th grade creative writing teacher
Opening a book she sat down with a great sigh,
as she speaks a glimmer of magic deep in her eye
and with her tales she begins to weave,
stories so captivating it’s impossible to leave
her words so descriptive you laugh, and you cry,
on magic carpets, dreaming in bliss you will fly.
With unicorns and dogs named old yeller,
this phenomenal woman sorceress, storyteller
gasping with excitement and quivering with fear,
and when the story is sad an involuntary tear
she’ll have you roll with laughter shouting with glee,
when the good guys are captured you’ll pray they get free.
On pins and needles hanging on every word
on backs of mystical creatures free as a bird,
by the end of the story you’ll be in her rapture
she’ll save you from dragons she’ll free you from capture,
her beautiful words will inspire Americas’ best sellers
she’s an intelligent teacher and creative storyteller
