This page is dedicated to those of us who are both imperfect and poetic. Often at the same time! Imperfection is a badge of honor. Perfection is boring, don’t you agree? We less than perfect folk need all the support we can get. Thus, this compilation of poems from our hearts and minds. Joining together like this gives each individual the strength of the whole. Together, we’re pretty good, aren’t we?
Thanks to our contributors to date: James Goddard, Philip van Wulven, Ian Boreham, Laura Wolfe, Linnie Buhman, Gordon Kuhn, Karen Rigley, Mandy Ward, Vivienne Tuffnell, Lorraine Holloway-White, Drew Cross, Andrew Meek, Hannah Warren, Katherine Holmes, Peter Mish.
If you would like to contribute, go to the ABOUT page and fill out the form with your contact information and a single short poem in the Comments space. I reserve the right as editor to make all final decisions as to what goes onto my page. All rights are reserved by each poet for his or her own writing.
In
by Laura Wolfe
… Press against iris burn them down
on my image eyes (yours)
rained air rising, buildings
grip up subway windows. Their reflections
slivers fleeting yes, but past is done: I meant
they’ve been here once (we can’t change that)
They slip our skin, leave scratch lines
and yell, but darkened ribs weren’t made to hold
grudges, or hot stains of fathers
release a year
We’ve watched our own lives bloom and vanish there
where things erase but don’t un-do
These windows stood it all. Free followed vectors
movements, forces Oh the physics of a train and me inside it
or people who (just possible loves)
will see me as less permanent
they know my inability at becoming bigger
against this skin of hard shellac, image bound by
scrawled fluorescent (outside of it we
are fused with light
and other
enviable things)
OLD AGE AS A PRELUDE TO DEATH
by Peter Mish
sever my feet from my body my roaming phase is over I shall not bleed out for the redblooded days have ended green field dreams dislodged like old long in the tooth fillings and ease into old-age apollonian apathy ease into waiting ease into forever
Blue heron
by Katherine Holmes
blue heron on the
island circumference
of a garage where
the settler this side
of the bay squatted
duck hunting a circle
traced around him
the naiad-mystic
ripples humming from
the cool cauldron
one heron one rock
one cloth of moss
one pine one boat
one man one duck
one wild onion
one heron one leg
one fish one water
one
a lookout raised
himself from
the shrinking
boundaries
area of an office
area of a sunroom
of a stilty fir
sinking in marsh silt
and the waves
fish scale lustrous
where we sisters paddle
with lengthened
arms lake-brisked eyes
canoe-logging along
to see the heron
the remembered closely
from the spindle
the blue heron whirs
spins adrift cloud
of sky camouflage
– First published in Ygdrasil
Windfalls
by Katherine Holmes
The landscaped lawn trees stand pendulous
with apples like a chandelier of autumn.
Its danglings in the drapery
especially choice
don’t drop down at anyone’s feet.
In a liberal backyard the apronload
of windfalls
could furnish a deer’s night foodshelf.
Above the root beer froth of nearby rapid
sapples are perilous as strewn toys
bruised the
carmel of the cascading water.
A sweet-sour aroma rises from
squandered crab apples stomped underfoot.
Vintage slops not far from the fallen golden
refuse.
A crow could peck at the chandelier apples
but it doesn’t care much more than kids do
about antediluvian fruit
ripping into the wrapper of a thrown
candy bar
heckling “finders keepers” mid-air.
– First published in Re-imagining
After That
by Laura Wolfe
it’s the
yes
in the last
at least you
were you,
but there
when I was,
or
before,
when I was
as big as
the air with my
yes
when love
was in me,
and then
after
that
the silence,
the tone
A B eh?
©Philip van Wulven 2012
see hungry schools, mates, in the court courting
move and turn as the current surges, urges
between reefs of bright choral clothing
brushed by waving trends of weed,
around cool deep dark crack,
break, your mother’s back.
swim there, step on it
swim in the warm,
the heat and beat
ah ecstasy now
we rely on
new plan B
it’s always
now, me,
mi amore
more
I
Goldfinches
©Philip van Wulven 2012
I saw seven goldfinches
in the plum tree today
three shone bright
like dandelions in the grass
the others brown as branches
all busy among the blossoms
together hawkbait and nestminders
no room for career choice here.
Pond Song
©Philip van Wulven 2012
We
see the waterlilies
breathe
their jewelled dreams of
love
in our diesel busy city
singing
Many froggy praises to jade
light
crooning a moose’s crown
made
of tangled blossom and mud dripping
bone
harmonising their chorus to
flesh
with memories of adamantine
spirit
and the dragonflies’ erratic
delight
then hum opalescently a tune
of Zion
learned by lanky goslings
in Babylon
Seven Poems
©Philip van Wulven 2011
Spring fever
In this soft morning
drowsy water shimmers
where the lake sloughs
its outgrown shell
sun in the cedars
gilds worn snow
all trembles gently
against the coming green
Lilypond
Here waterlilies still breathe their dreams of love
in our diesel busy city
singing jade praises to light
their blossoms’ glory,
wintered in mist and memory,
now made flesh, spirit, bone, laughter
share the dragonflies’ erratic delight
and hum a tune of Zion
learned by lanky goslings
in Babylon
Reap roses,
tread the clay,
beyond the rapid foam of threshing days
and flesh-flashy nights,
of making hay and other delights,
lie still the pools
where the salmon waits
late fall Night
moonlit snow hushes
the shingles
and a slow fire licks
the iron stove
while the kittens are learning
how to purr
the queen brings
a night gift wrapped
in red
a mouse to play with
In the Old Country
Horses graze around the mound in the meadow
that once was a castle and a home
the heroes and the children gone into the green
their dreams echoed only by the irises
that flame beside the pond
in sapphire glory
war and peace
I have seen the black bull tear the red land
I have seen the elephant
Do not speak to me of glory
Or the nobility of the lion
Give me the blue buck
On the green hill
And the small rain falling
The snowflake on moss
dreams dancing as sunlight
on ocean waves
Ghosts left over
by Andrew Meek
Information:
That is what we are
digital thoughts about our thoughts
sparking and igniting
an inner space that creates, within itself
another space
but a space that has no size or boundary
a space that needs no space
is no space
for what size is a thought?
what does it weigh?
how can one measure its weight
until it is acted upon
virtual made real
Ghosts inside machines?
or more than that
but somehow less
chemicals secreting messages
electricity pulses across vast chasms
and in doing so, in the act of the mindless reaching out
mind comes and knowledge comes
of a ‘self’ that is more and less than it knows
the sum of the parts is a feeling of separateness
the ghosts left over.
We come, we go.
by Andrew Meek
We come, we go
The old look upon the faces of the young
seeing themselves reborn
What was then
again yet to come
a promise, a dream of all that will be
We come, we go
The young shall grow old and
look upon the faces of the young
seeing their lives relived, renewed
What was then
yet again to come
We come, we go
We are
We were
Lovers loved
Dreams dreamed
All sorrows end
We come, we go.
Her own private sun.
by Andrew Meek
She breaths heavily
her body warm, wet, with perspiration
as I lay my head upon her stomach
wrap my fingers around her hips
I am safe here, with her
content, no need to speak
I feel her body rise and fall with each breath
feel the life within her
cherish it
worship it
I feel a single tear form in my eye
she must never die, this must never end
Her skin, familiar
so soft to the touch
I breath her in, her sweet sent, her warmth
her inner light
that burns within;
her own private sun
I feel her fingers run through my hair
so gentle
like a mother to a son
no! A lover to a lover
we are gods
we will live for eternity
What is time to us
it means nothing
there is no time
there is just… this
this moment that is all moments
a moment without end
I kiss her skin
little butterfly kisses
and I feel her quiver
as my fingers trace the shape of her form
she is such exquisite beauty;
my own private goddess
I lie upon her, wrapped around her
sleepy and spent and content
I want for nothing but her
she is my universe, my sun and moon
we coalesce, one rhythm, one movement
my life held in her breath
The light of day gives way to the coming night
we sleep times sting away
beyond words
beyond this… bodily form
we drift in a timeless space
lovers forever, entwined.
Wind is Fire
by Hannah Warren 24 July 2011
In memory of the young Norway victims
Go beyond my petty thoughts
Where the wind stirs fire in my soul
And I walk upright in the morning light
Where God is in me
And I am proud.
Tall grass on either side of the path
Bows in reverence to me
While I ponder violence
Human dysfunction
The blades they whisper watch me
While I die.
How we count, yes we count
The wind obeying my command.
Oh still child
It will reveal its secret
Have no doubt.
I’m your fire and you’re my witness.
A Tale of Two Stories
by Hannah Warren 7 July 2006
The crimson sky stands proud against the fading light
As threads of weightless gold weave patterns for the night
Revered, Earth moves towards the dark side of her spin
The night’s beauty echoes the stillness from within.
A breeze plays with the curtains and the soul
The veil slips from the limbs, reveals the body whole
Warm shade of passion draws the figures on the bed
Gives life to thirsty loins, fills up the lonely head.
And though the clock remains the master of the game
The lovers linger free from time that has no claim
Where lips touch skin hands follow traces yet unknown
Searching the torch that brightly shines we’re not alone.
This ancient tale so sweet now twines our stories, too
Into a kid-glove morning, still wond’ring what to do
As Master Sun ascends to warm the bright, clear day
Sure you and me will strike upon our godsend way.
Her Odyssey
by Hannah Warren 1 January 2007
Again today
You see her watch
The birds in flight
Ask them
To bring her quest
Before the gods.
Again today
You hear her listen
To the winds in rage
Pray them
To make him safely
Join her side.
Again today
You feel her taste
The salty waves
That lick her lips
To feel the love
She once obeyed.
Again tonight
You watch her spin
The threads of doubt
Beg them
To help her wait.
Eternal weight.
BIRDS AND BEES
by Drew Cross
Little boys, little girls
No difference for you, your little
World revolves in different spirals.
An eye for the detail of naivety
And an ear that cannot hear the screams
That you asked for.
You bent him like a flower stem,
That boy who then was not a boy,
Changed as if by twisted magic.
Darkness.
From here a different kind of view,
The topography suddenly askew,
An angle from which I cannot see
The angels that watch on and weep,
The feel of feathery fronds,
Grass imprints on a slapped red cheek,
The smell of seed.
Tell me that you love me,
Tell me that you love this.
Pollen drips.
The sound of the breeze through
Watching trees – shh, shh, shh –
Such rude anatomy these flower kind,
A stamen thrust, a silken fold,
The sunlight bleeds out
Honey gold and crimson
Onto bright green leaves,
And into dreams.
I do not dream. I do not scream
Anymore.
CRUCIFIX
by Drew Cross
Won’t you hang me
A crucifix
Around my traitor neck?
Sell me reproachful reprieve or
Tear me limb from limb,
Twist my ten year old tongue
In a knot around my throat,
Leave me dangling
Your mannequin.
Torture me
With conversation,
Embarrassed clouds
Of veiled evasion,
Breathing sharp throatfuls
Of quiet submission
I drown in thorny silence
Like innocence.
A boy with Auschwitz eyes
And a belly full
Of righteous rage.
I do not speak
Thank God for My Senses
©Lorraine Holloway-White
I’m lucky I have all my senses
I thank God every day
To enjoy all the beauty around me
The Nature He passed my way.
As I sit in my garden I wonder
Of the gifts we could all perceive
If only we didn’t hanker
For material things we don’t need.
I only want for the basics
The rest is just luxury
But real contentment and pleasure
Is in the gifts of nature and free.
Not all of us have five senses
Some only have two or three
But they’re contented and happy
And not eaten up by greed.
So if ever I’m sad or lonely
Or life is just getting me down
I think of those gifts God gave me
And the beauty of my surrounds.
I think of those people with nothing
There are others worse off than me
For I have all of my senses
And am rich beyond all belief.
Lazy Science
by Vivienne Tuffnell
The mysteries of the universe
Are best explored by means of verse
Where stars that rise and stars that fall
Remain within the reach of all.
Science sometimes can be too much
For those of us who are out of touch
With latest theories and jargon cool
Or things we’ve all forgot since school.
Sometimes those wonders best remain
Unexplained, like summer rain.
What am I worth?
by Vivienne Tuffnell
What am I worth?
Five K a kidney?
A snip, if you’ll pardon a pun.
Bargain bin good looks,
Reduced due to store damage
And some slight fading.
A cheap sense of humour,
Tending towards blackness
But not quite sick, not yet.
That must be worth a bit.
A Lucky Dip of hidden talents;
Go on, have a gamble.
Even I don’t have a clue
What’s hidden deep inside.
That bland tub of sawdust
May hold mysterious gifts
Awaiting your longer reach.
Go on, I dare you:
Make me an offer.
How much? You’re joking!
No way, no sale, pal!
I’m worth more than that, I think.
Nessie’s Holiday
by Mandy Ward
Along the coast of Wales,
Is a lonely rocky beach.
With a cave and tiny waterfall,
Within the sea tide reach.I walk along here often,
Just after the sun is up.
I watch the Oystercatchers,
And sip coffee from my cup.
One gloomy winter morning,
I heard sobbing from the cave,
And made haste to see who cried,
Whose life I may have to save.
Great brown eyes regarded me.
Tears flooding around flippered feet,
Green and blue scales dimmed by shadow,
A long tail made the picture complete.
“Why are you crying?” I asked bewildered,
By the Dragon’s red rimmed gaze.
“I’m homesick.” The Dragon replied,
“I haven’t been there for days.”
“Where is your home? Is it far?”
My curiosity perked up its head.
“Why can’t you go back to where you live,
And snuggle up in bed?”“I live in the distant Loch Ness,
That place connected to the sea.
I watch the tourists and the locals
Looking out for me.
“The locals call me Nessie,
Even though it’s not my name,
They make models and sell cards,
To the tourists drawn by my fame.
I used to go and talk to them,
I’d slip up onto shore.
And chat to all the local kids,
I won’t be doing it any more.”
“Why ever not?” I asked her then,
Sitting on a nearby rock.
“What happened to upset you?
You’ve cried an awful lot.”
She sniffled and she snuffled,
Blowing her nose on a seaweed hanky
The tears dried up a little bit,
And she looked a lot less manky.
“One sunny morning not long ago,
I went to see a human buddy.
A nasty adult hurt my leg and fin,
And tried to drag me ashore to study.
I fought so hard to get away,
That the adult fell in the loch,
And before I could rescue him,
Hit his head on a massive rock.
The Police all thought I did it,
Despite my Buddy’s cries,
And tried to shoot me in the heart,
Believing the adult’s lies.”
I wasn’t sure just what to say,
To the lovely creature here.
So I just sat and stroked her paw,
I knew I didn’t need to fear.
“You can stay in Wales for a while,”
I eventually said to her.
“I’m sure Y Draig Goch won’t mind,”
And Nessie began to purr.
So if you travel to the Scots Land,
And look for Nessie there.
You won’t find her at the loch,
The water will be bare.
She’s happy on my rocky beach,
Playing in the sun,
And I go down almost every day,
To talk and have some fun.
Even famous monsters need,
To have some time away,
And Nessie has come down to Wales,
To have her holiday
IRREVOCABLE CHOICE
by Karen Rigley
Long ago, merely a wisp of a memory,
I recall your laughter.
I can no longer remember the feel
of your lips pressed to mine,
though your caring touch ricochets through my mind.
You wanted only to love me.
Yet, you reluctantly released me,
as a child sets a butterfly free.
We possessed no crystal ball to see the future.
We did not know our separate paths
led neither of us the right way.
My heart shattered and my soul pierced
when I heard of your passing.
Now I’m haunted by the echo of your love.
EAGLE WISDOM
by Karen Rigley
Imagine an eagle
circling the sky
zooming upflying high
Soar above cliff
soar above mountain
a symbol of strength
a spiritual fountain
Born in a nest
hungry and weak
right from birth
determined to seek
promise of destiny
Rise to succeed
rise to fulfill
plan of the Almighty
Gliding toward heaven
the eagle soars
through the sky
inspiring
my spirit since
even an eagle
must learn to fly
SKY PILLOWS
Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn
Poet in the Rain Productions
Bright—orange-red,
Purple streaks slowly fed
A fire slowly licking,
As the days dying clock goes ticking.
Grey in shreds hanging drifting forward from the back.
Beyond comes star-lit sprinkled black.
Rolls of fat pastry fill and take up the slack
Fast in the forefront of the attack.
Fat, orange-red pillows,
Steady on solid, no need for billows.
A fire beneath the hidden blue is raging
Yet no one beneath the vision is paging.
No fire station its staff is staging,
To fight the flares of flame so raging,
Following there the setting of the sun,
For the day is simply come to be done.
The death in passing within a violent explosion,
A treat for eyes this sweet essence of ambrosian.
Great rolls of orange and of red
The sky in violent glow my vision fed
As if the horizon engulfed in flames
A reflected blaze consumes all it claims.
And yet no damage below was done,
By the sinking, the settling of the sun.
THE FUNERAL PYRE
Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn
Poet in the Rain Productions
The following is a poetic reflection on “All the Beautiful Things” written by author Andrew Meek.
The flames licked and sucked upon the food,
T’was fed the crackling heart of fire lent;
As papers, memories, laughter, all the beautiful things, love’s past mood,
Orange, red, and curling grey rose and ate until all was spent.
Nothing there was to be kept.
All there over each had been wept.
A slender hand fed food the glowing, hungry, naked beast,
Which ate so hungrily the memories stained with fallen tears;
And, how oddly, she, the igniter of the flames, not in the least,
Came to realize, burning memories set her free, reduced her fears.
Nothing in memory or tangible she brought there was to be kept.
All brought there over each had been silent wept.
That all that had been or was to be, had come and gone now with the
ticking of passing time,
As memories had failed to stand with her neither strong nor true;
Alone, now, she watched dreams reduce to ashes, and heard a distant
church bell chime,
And then, in deep and stark awareness knew, she had stood true to herself
and seen the issue through.
Nothing else in memory had been for her that day was kept.
All that was or could have been over each had been silently wept.
THE LADY’S SONG
Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn
Poet in the Rain Productions
Along the meadow’s fairy edge,
Lightning no longer threatened.
Thunder no longer crashed.
Now, gently, she was pulled out into the dark.
An invisible hand took hers tenderly in tow.
Drew her out from the safety of her home.
Drew her naked out onto the waiting grass.
A thrill shot through her there.
Bare skinned the journey began,
Bare skinned she bent down the leaves of grass
Beneath her body, back arched, as she lay soft beneath the stars
To gaze at heaven’s washed clean-slate
And, sensed she then, nature’s singular desire, its wish with her to mate,
She relaxed.
Opened her body.
Opened her mind.
Opened her soul.
Her legs, slowly, in growing passion unconstrained did spread
Stroked by, warmed and kissed by,
She accepted the wisdom offered, given
While she was lifted beneath a thousand distant suns
Cradled by hands unseen,
And lying there acknowledged the gift
Surrendered to the knowledge therein delivered,
Acknowledged what was so gently given, what was so gently accepted.
While somewhere close a violin sang out a single soft note
That pierced not only the night but drove deep within her soul
And her voice did rise from within her depths
And she sang out her woman’s single song
As she and nature, there upon a bed of grass fresh cleaned and dewy wet
Lay together then in peace and slept
Now, where she lay, that day, a blanket of flowers now carpets the spot,
And, if you listen carefully, you can hear the violin’s single note
Played in the trees at the meadow’s fairy edge.
Played softly, a cue for her to sing her woman’s single, simple song,
now heard dancing on the wind.
Dancing at the meadow’s fairy edge.
CHOCOLATE
by Jim Goddard
Chocolate is good for curing:
The flu
Stomach pains
Headache
Broken bones
Broken hearts
Whatever
All ills related to everything
(other things might be needed to help cure, but chocolate should ALWAYS be regarded as the main source for wellness)
Chocolate cures depression
Bad moments
Brain malfunctions
Insanity
Near insanity
Absolute saneness
Opens up grey cells
Clears the air
Makes frowns turn the other way
Is always a good way to make people smile
The time you eat chocolate is not counted against your life (sorta like fishing, only you don’t have to gut anything disgusting)
Chocolate bridges gaps
Explains theories
Sends the soul into ethereal never never lands
Explains the sexes
Chocolate takes you places you never would have gone if there were never any
chocolate to begin with
Chocolate has the distinction of never ever being the cause for war
The Beatles wrote a song “all you need is love”, but the original title was “all you need is chocolate”, unfortunately that didn’t sound quite right, so they
shortened it to “love”, and the rest is history
Moral:
When you think of chocolate, just substitute the word love…and all your problems will vanish
When you think of love, just think of chocolate – but the greatest of these is still….
…love
AN ETHEREAL SKY
by Jim Goddard
Do you like to lie underneath an ethereal sky
Close your eyes and dream you’re some place else
Another time
A world apart from your own
Do you ever wish
For simple times, and gentle winds, lapping on your face
Blowing your hair
Do you like to lie underneath an ethereal sky
Upon green grass, looking up past long oak tree limbs
And seeing the deep blue sky
Wonder if you can fly?
And leave the landscape, the grass, the oak, and disappear
Past the clouds
Past the earth
And into the stars…
Do you like ice cream
On warm summer days
Basking in the moment
Mountain or beach, park or shopping mall
Taking in the simple things
And laying aside
The madness of the day
Do you ever disappear
Into the moment
And find yourself taken away
To yesterday
Or toward future dreams
Do you like to lie underneath an ethereal sky
Without a thought
And just find contentment….
In rest
And the Glory which is God
And the miracle which is you
Never Would I Meet You
by Jim Goddard
If I had never met you
I would not know
How warm
The sun could be
Nor would I know
How beautiful the song birds are
If I had not met you
I would never have smelled the sweet summer rain
Nor known….
What love could really be
Oh, love…why do you linger
Why don’t you stay away?
No more room for love,
No more risk taking
Love responds “Fool! I can never leave you…”
…I will never allow you to give up hope…”
Alas, poor muse, play upon me more awhile
Ponder, too much thinking!
I should be drinking
My heart has been sinking
Yes, I need a wife…I mean LIFE!!!
Did Robert Browning ever become depressed?
What would Dracula do?
Or Elvis?
Or Marilyn?
Or Ronald and Nancy?
I’d become a monk
If I could rid my heart
Of love sonnets
Poetry
And romantic dreaming
Love has a choke hold on my soul
It is impossible to be rid of
“No room for love!”
“Fool x 70,” love replies. “If you have no room for love –
“then you have no room for life.”
Sigh!
Don’t spare the coffee
The chocolate nor strawberries and wine
I am your slave
Oh love, hopelessly so, mere knave am I!
The end of the rhyme
by Ian Boreham aka The Sandman
I wish I could write like poets and muses
But for some reason the brain in my head just refuses
It seems to be wired to some weird kind of circuit
… No matter how hard that I push it and work it
It simply won’t let scribe things that don’t rhyme
And this happens time after time after time
Trying to find things that sound like crustacean
It’s driving me mad, you can see my frustration
I want to write beauty, some passion in prose
But this is that hand I’ve dealt I suppose
It’s not going to happen; I am stick in this rut
But the dream is still open, there’s no ending, but
There is still hope that I could make amends
And learn to write like my imperfect friends
Elizabeth Wolfe and Philip Van Wulven
Who writings are very clever and oh so cool, then
The great Hannah Warren whose pen is so sleek
To the dark and mysterious Mister Andrew Meek
If just for one minute I could write like these people
Then my name would be sung from every spire and steeple
Praise be to Ian AKA The Sandman
And just for once I won’t be called the madman
Who only writes stuff where endings match or are similar
I recognise his style it feels so familiar
The quill is waiting for that famous day
When two lines don’t rhyme and I’ll be able to say
Sincerely and honestly and most of all factually
I have broken the mould and that’s a fact………..
….Actually.Damn!
Sex on the Ceiling
by Ian Boreham
My wife likes to moan when we’re making love
But it’s generally about the cobwebs above
On the ceiling the gossamer catches her glance
She might enjoy it if she only gave it a chance
For her it’s a duty she has to perform
… For me I’m a hunter and find it the norm
As I finish my show with a sexy manoeuvre
She says “That was great, now fetch me the Hoover”
Doors and Windows
by Linnie Buhman
It’s like a game they said
when I decided to play.
You’ve got a door or a window,
you’ve got to choose and move on.
Once I looked back,
only to find the window closed
from the other side.
A neon light showed a glimpse
of what had been.
Make mistakes –
forget to read the direction?
It’s all a part of the game.
Right or wrong, up or down
it’s not all black and white –
sometimes it’s striped.
“Can Billy come out and play?”
“No, because he can’t make up his mind.”
“Poor Billy Fourwalls.”
Hard to Breath
by Linnie Buhman
I would climb the iron curtain
just for a chance to make you mine.
Make paths through the desert
for a moment of your time.
Has the apple become bitter
blackened by the tears you weep?
Do the mountains cry for mercy
for the ashes that you keep?
Life is all around me,
but I find it hard to breath;
until I know you’re here beside me,
and not some other little creep!
In the Beginning by C.F. Joyce 