It’s like the Lochness monster
A mythic creature that crawls to the surface
Of a Scottish Lake in spring.
People rush to take photographs
It is reported as a rare sighting
A local legend that has worldwide fame
A prehistoric behemoth that defies logic
An urban myth for some
A visual hoax and false hope

However, one thing is true
The more you go looking for it
The more it disappears
Just like love

I remember when we were young,
When laughter spilled and songs were sung.
The world was vast, yet felt so small,
Each day an adventure, we had it all.

I remember those summer skies,
The endless games, the innocent lies.
Barefoot races through fields of green,
Dreams as big as we had ever seen.

I remember all the secret spots,
The treehouse high, and skipping rocks.
Whispers shared beneath the moon,
Hoping forever wouldn't come too soon.

An old house mouse
climbed up grandfathers clock
It perched atop it
to take in the view

There was no one to stop it
from peering around
On the floor a cat sat lazily
waiting and watching

It's snack would
eventually come down.
Mr. mouse never returned
it crawled through a crack in the wall

Infuriated that old cat
kept prowling, but it never
found that old mouse
Hungrily it stalked off to pout

My mare guardian true
guiding me through with a light heart
she speak wisdom in my ear so soft
steering me towards destiny keepers

she shows the way to those in need
come what may
she braid my hair with a gentle hand
braiding wisdom into each strand

she keeps secrets
loving me regardless through each life pace
knowing I oppose obedient she set me free
and raises a sword for me steadfast for me

I have intense feelings
And my intense feelings
are powerful
I use them to
Write my poems
I am the one
That have to be happy
With my feelings
Sometimes I am feeling joyful
Sometimes I am overwhelmed
Sometimes feeling tired
Sometimes I wished I could
Sleeping in

She entered the corridor,
With elegance, grace, and flair.
A commanding beauty,
Would make us stop and stare.

With heels that make her step,
In purpose and with care.
She holds an aura,
Impossible to compare.

Against walls adorned with pictures,
Of scenes that seem so far.
Transporting you dear reader,
Back to lands that seem bizarre.

Holding memories etched,
By pots and rugs that adorn.
But speak of all the times,
Modernity likes to scorn.

I would like to fly, fly, fly.

Removing myself from the unknown, because of the cruel destruction shown.

For there I will be,
in a place filled with everlasting peace.

By Marie Davis

This room mourns in a gray-born shroud of loss.
It holds no light, I linger in the dark.
My joy bleeds out, as hung upon a cross,
my hope diminishes, both weak and stark.

I am aware of voices near my door,
but cannot understand who speaks beyond.
Is it a welcomed friend whom I adore?
Or my mistaken good will, overfond.

One feels alone when shattered by a word
so deep it cuts raw lesions through each breath.
While wishing such a void was never heard,
is this the point when hope shall meet its death?

I read her,
(she is:)
a poem bumped
up on steroids.
So obvious to
the practiced soul.
Her make-up;
exaggerated
bordering
on clownish
those Big EYES
seeing empty space...
I am drowning
in her vast
droning space,
caught by eye-liner
under scoring
her sly sentencing
of useless diatribe.
She is a shrewd surgeon
balancing on the cold
steel of her scalpel
poised and perfect
prescience,
like poisoned
drop of venom
on adders fang...

Like Moses of old,
He never quite arrived.
Denied his right to enter,
because of an indiscretion.

He commanded a stone,
to issue a fountain of water.
His people rebelled,
because they were thirsting.

He commanded the stone,
without mentioning Gods name.
Was he ever really free,
I don't think that He was.

Only in the sense of his choices,
but they were absolutely limited.
The reasons that we make choices,
are occluded by misinformation.