voices

In my dream I was navigating uncharted territory,

totally susceptible to the influence of the full moon.

 In a small vessel floating through tainted waters,

I heard echoes of your voice and what you once said to me.

I tried to follow your voice in the distance but I can’t reach you.

Maybe you’re not there; it’s only your words shattering my soul.

 My boat takes me far out in to the crystal ocean, still and calm.

 Your song has ended but I hear moonbeams floating on the waves,

and the soft pleas of all the lost begging to be found.

I wait in my tiny vessel. I wait for time, I wait for change,

I wait…

poem and photo copyright 2009 Rhonda Prince 

she was a local love poet who nobody loved

"found" e-mail subject line.

blossoms to the dawn

BLOSSOMS TO THE DAWN

The lavender sky in the morning blossoms to the dawn

Where soft brushes of colors blend shadows upon.

In the morning I come before Him in song

Against the sky when I soar with Him where shadows are long.

The soft lavenders over the horizon now just a bud now full

Where in the shadows of the morning in places cool.

As the morning blossoms as it slept through the night

The edges of the moon on the blossoms are white.

When the soft brush of colors in the horizon hint

Like rainbows lavender on the hillsides that are now bent.

In His love as He touches the morning with His brush

As the sky becomes into the morning in its silent hush.

As the sky blossoms into the colors of lavender tears

As on hillsides I find a soft tremble of its edges as it peers.

The sky lit as a lavender blossoms as it opens its petal each

And then as each opens in the morning I gaze into it as its blossoms reach.

copyright Cheryl Zweigart

2009

Pages in the Tree

More than a few

children on this tree.

More than a few

adventures,

sadness and happiness
in beguiling and blazing leaves

These are

leaves in trees,

and strange nuts

in the family tree,

a single page

in a dysfunctional story.

These are

skeleton stories.

These leaves are

spotted, stained
or damaged,

holey,lonely
atbranches

afraid at edges

Like hairstyles the ends,

stems are long
or short ends curling

in or out

Today I saw aspen leaves

as yellow icicles.

November 12, 2009

poem copyright 2009 Nicole Taylor

photo copyright 2009 BRowland

everything being a constant carnival

She rode sixteen ferris wheels

in one afternoon,

each one spinning

faster than the last.

Synchronized revolutions

of light and motion

left her shaken and wobbly.

She stumbled into an open field

where an old oak waited

to offer her refuge.

She was cradled in his

knotted limbs,

her head against

his coarse bark.

She begged to stay for 300 years,

there in the shady respite.

But as she slept the sounds of the

carnival plagued her rest.

Frenzied screams of terror

or delight interrupted

her dreams.

Unable to sleep she

left the comfort of the oak

and staggered drowsily

back to the fray,

back to the wild rides.

Buying sixteen more tickets,

and with a nod to the moon,

she mounted the ride,

braced herself against the side

and began to spin again...

poem and photo copyright 2009 Rhonda Prince