The World of our Hearts

Here's another poem by me, I don't know what inspired it, but I wrote by accident, and it ended up less than awful. So here it is, guys! 




The World of our Hearts
When the air of the sun
Let's the light flutter by
Then the snakes and the Mayans
Gaze up to the sky.
And as the world spins around
Like a big Lollipop,
And we fly to our hearts with even no shock.

Burning Song

Fire has always been of great interest to me. It can cause life, yet it also causes death. To honor this peculiar element, I out some song into in and wrote a poem.

Song is the fire
The fire is the song
The song is the fire when there's always something wrong.
Fire will be thrown
When the song is sung.
When the song is sung
the fire will be done
We will run
But don't forget
The songs we've sung
And as we skip along the sun
We're burning with the fire.

Wings

Here is a poem by me. Hope you enjoy it.

Wings

I may not have song

I may not have speed

But I have my wings

That's all that I need.

I fly through my heart

And fly through a thought

It's not with my legs

But with wings that I trot.

I don't have the looks

Love's without much ado

I may not have the charm

But I sure got the view.

Look out to the sky

Where you'll see me fly

And far, far, up high

I'm going to try.

Lily

Tonight I'm going to share with you a poem of I place I often imagine when I want peace inside my mind. 

Lily
There is a place
Where one Lily does grow
As it waves in the wind
And stands in the snow
There is a place
Where one Lily 
And it's waiting
And waiting 
For someone to know

There is a place
Where one Lily does grow
As it laughs with the skies
And laughs at the crows
There is a place
Where one Lily does grow
As it stays there and watches
How the wind blows

Hans Christian Anderson

Tonight, I want to share a poem by Hans Christian Anderson. He's not known for his poetry, but it's just as beautiful as his stories. Short and sweet, here is his poem - very meaningful to me.

Hans Christian Anderson

To move, to breathe, to fly, to float,

To gain all while you give,

To roam the roads of lands remote,

To travel is to live.

Have you ever contemplated why the human species sometimes does such destructive things? I have. In fact, I have, enough to write a poem about it. we're so inventive, creative, and resourceful, yet we still do so many things to the earth that let's us be so innovative. I've thought a lot about that earth, too. We need to make the conscience decision to appreciate and help it - I realize that writing poetry won't do that, but it will certainly enrich the lives of those who live here, and maybe inspire someone to make a change. I know poetry does that for me. So here you are, "Graceful is the Ocean" a poem from me to the environment.

Graceful is the Ocean

Graceful

Is the ocean

As it  twirls through endless waves

Gawky

Are the fisherman

As they tumble through rods, nets, and other toxic gear

Regal

Are the mountains

As they gaze upon the worlds below

Spiteful

Are the workers

Who fall through miles smokey building built upon the icy tops

Caring

Are the tree-tops

As they soar with birds and run with deer

Reckless

Are the Loggers

As they tear down leaf-green hopes from the sky whilst still with both feet firmly positioned in the soil, as if they were afraid they would walk away by the end of their work.

Early in the Morning

Good morning! I think the early morn' is my favorite time of day - everything seem so fresh, and everyone around me seems wide awake and ready for a great day. I've always liked slightly windy mornings, and although that doesn't happen too often, I now have a new swing and I'm able to create my own swift wind in the chirping, bright morning. Now when I say everyone around me is wide awake, I'm usually talking about the birds and other animals, because most people that I know are horribly sleepy morning heads. Dedicated to this special morning, I'm posting a beautiful poem by Li-Young Lee

Early in the Morning

While the long grain is softening

in the water, gurgling

over a low stove flame,

the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced

for breakfast, before the birds,

my mother glides an ivory comb

through her hair, heavy

and black as a calligrapher's ink. 

She sits at the foot of the bed.

My father watches, listens for

the music of a comb 

against hair.

My mother combs,
pulls her hair back
tighter, rolls it
around two fingers, pins 
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like this.
He says it is kempt.

But I know
it is because of the way
my mother's hair falls
when he pulls the pins out.
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening