Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: October 30, 2009
One morning
the sky was gray
I didn’t know what to do
or say
One morning
the sun shone bright
and I knew
then and there
that everything would be all right
But mornings
turn to afternoons
and afternoons
to evenings
And when I come to the end of each day
I wonder about its meaning.
Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: September 10, 2009
I walk a tight rope
a bridge without rails
traversing mile-wide canyons and sky high buildings
Gingerly crossing the razor thin wire
Careful not to let a gust of wind
blow me down
In the hope that one day, I will walk on solid ground.
Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: July 10, 2009
Today is the day
to start fresh.
Today is the day
to start something new.
Today is the day
to imagine the possibilities.
Today is the day
to go somewhere new.
Today is the day
to do what I love.
Today is the day
to be who I am.
Today is the day
to love myself.
Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: June 18, 2009
Riding the train home
on a late evening
I strain to hear the voice
of a colleague
The noise of the train
creates static
like the kind that old television sets make
when the signal fades to snow
Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: May 30, 2009
A peaceful day?
Maybe not…
An energizing workout
relaxing stretch
A blissful morning
New phone in hand
A stroll around the mall
A busy afternoon
An altercation
at home
about what else….
money
I never seem to have any
I escape the scene
Walking away from
the accusations
endless guilt
frustration
harsh criticism
I return
the flames still smoldering
I hastily make my way to my room
the room that I once found heavenly
now
is a place of shame
despair
loneliness
guilt
Tears roll down my cheeks
softly releasing all my frustration
Music plays in the background
as I return to a blissful state
A quiet evening begins
Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: May 14, 2009
Faded blue jeans
draped over the bedroom chair
Sunlight
washing the room
in a brilliant yellow glow
She sits up
suddenly
alert
quickly gathering
her articles of clothing
haphazardly strewn of the floor.
What? Where are you going?
He asks,
Once he notices
there’s no longer
an arm stretched across his chest
I can’t do this anymore
she yells,
unable to repress
her anger–
and disappointment.
She was such a fool
to think this
would lead somewhere.
The racy e-mails
“anonymous flower deliveries
It all started so innocently
a compliment at the Christmas party
when her husband had gone to get refills of wine
then an invitation to the opera
A place her husband refused to take her–
he much preferred a quiet night at home
reading a science fiction novel.
Soon, the two of them
would find moments at the office
for a quickie
a late lunch
early breakfast
dinner meeting
Her husband never suspected a thing.
Such an honest man himself, he believed that his wife
was just as honest.
She had not planned to be unfaithful,
her husband was just so distant–
preoccupied with his reading or crossword puzzle–
so she looked elsewhere.
She quickly packs
the few belongings
she had stuffed
into her overnight bag,
earlier that day.
If she hurried,
she could catch the 3 o’clock flight home
and arrive in time for dinner.
He would never know.
Wait, Amanda, he yells,
as she briskly walks to the elevator
in her patent leather heels,
leaving behind her faded blue jeans.
Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: May 13, 2009
It’s rather aggravating,
when a call you’re expecting,
when a call you’re dreading—
doesn’t come.
You wait with anticipation
careful not to use the phone—
in case the calls comes through.
Yet hour after hour passes,
without a single call.
Even more maddening
you can’t call them
so there’s no way
of figuring out about
the delay.
Yet, they have no problem
creating delays:
for your day
for your payments
for bills being paid
for your life.
Wouldn’t it be nice
if they had
an ounce of empathy
for the plight of the unemployed.
People who want nothing more
than a paycheck
to provide for themselves
and their families.
Then, maybe,
they would feel the aggravation
of having to wait for a call
that never comes.
Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: April 21, 2009
“Writing is a process, not a product.”
Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: April 16, 2009
It’s a long way down
from a high peak
and the path can be steep.
But with a little common sense,
I can make it to the bottom
and cross any bridges
which guide me
to the safety
of a sunny meadow.
This meadow is full of wildflowers
which grow as high as my head
The full color spectrum is represented:
from brilliant mustard to tranquil lavender.
And as I walk among them,
a gentle breeze blows through me,
offering a sense of serenity and peace.
Their fragrance provides a sense of balance.
When I reach the end of the meadow,
I feel rested and energized,
ready to climb the next peak
and overcome any obstacles in my way.
Posted by: poeticlibrarian on: March 11, 2009
Through a child’s eyes
lie worlds unseen
people invisible
working their magic
bringing sun light
to rain drenched fields
rain to parched hills
home for the poor
humility to the rich
peace to the world.
Through a child’s eyes
there is joy
in the ordinary
a special feeling in every moment
that often gets lost
as the child grows
becoming immune
to the beauty that surrounds her
nature’s majesty
just outside her door
in a land where dreams come true.
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