|Kids and young adults have asked for a poetry page, so here it is. I'll be happy to post any poetry you'd like to share. Don’t forget to tell me your first name or screen name and age.|
Twenty Angels now in Heaven,
Not one over the age of seven.
Defenseless hero becomes a shield
Still the evil would not yield.
The pain is great, my muscles sore,
This one cuts right to the core.
Mental illness, inner strife,
The objectification of human life.
When will it stop?
When will it end?
How will America rise again?
Little Angels, I say to thee
Soar high ...
Soar proud ...
For you are free.
A Tribute To My Fans
Writing for young children
Brings me inner peace.
My need to create beauty,
Shall never lull or cease.
Published or unpublished,
Award or no award,
My words aim to inspire
And sometimes strike a chord.
We'll battle evil dragons,
Soar to outer space,
Use a magnifying glass
To solve an unsolved case.
There is no greater joy
Than to see children smile,
It makes the hours of toil
All the more worthwhile.
Where I'll be tomorrow,
I haven't got a clue.
So I'll write books for today
And share them all with you.
A blue sun is reflected through the window,
Crystal eyes gaze outside.
The frozen lake that is hidden at the garden's corner
smiles to the eyes that are clear as the sea.
A bare hand is stretched outside, pumping the atmosphere.
The hand that is white as snow withdraws quickly.
White teeth exposed very slowly
behind two gentle red lips.
Golden hair as falling threads that fall from the scalp
hides smooth pale face, as the face of a porcelain doll.
Brown coat covers her body that wanders around in the garden.
She is alone outside, no one facing her.
She steps straight in the covered snow's path toward the frozen lake.
A bare foot is laid on the ice.
The frozen ice is slightly cracked,
One more step – she is being swallowed inside.
Oh, poor ice queen.
~ Sent by Shany
A little mouse lies in its nest,
Cozy and warm;
But a whiff of wind wakes it up –
“I’ll sup tonight,” the hungry mouse says,
“I’ll sup tonight.”
Out … into the dark and dreary night,
It runs and stops; stops and runs;
Sniffs the air.
A truck barrels down the road,
The mouse lies still;
Tinged with red; tinged with blue –
The cheese, untouched,
Awaits another mouse
Who’ll cross the street –
An opponent to the left
Another to the right
I mentally prepare
For the imaginary fight.
More appear before me;
I sense some from behind
I close my eyes and focus –
No more worried mind.
I block with frightening power,
Strike with utter force
I voice my cry in battle
And show no remorse.
Bodies are sprawled everywhere
My mission is complete
I take a bow and walk away
As my enemies taste defeat.
A Widow's Walk
She has done the same routine for twenty years
He was to have come home in two.
She dons her wedding dress
Now an eerie, ghostlike white
And readies herself for the ascent.
Each weary step she takes
Seems only to invite three more
Yet she keeps climbing the dreaded spiral.
In tune with the staircase
Her mind is twisting, turning.
She reaches the top
And peers into the vast emptiness
Broken only by the gentle sound of surf.
She stares vacantly at the omnipotent sea –
Waiting . . . Waiting . . . Waiting . . .