Thursday, November 26, 2009

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 







Sunday, November 22, 2009

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

Friday, November 13, 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

Thursday, November 5, 2009

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