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  • Life My Way
  • Fiction
  • Poetry
  • Book Reviews
    • Middle Grade Reviews
    • Children's Book Reviews
  • Tiner Bookmarks
  • Contact Me
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Poetry is its own form of magic

The Journey

11/14/2017

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Picture
​Morning comes
With the rise of the sun
The day begins
When the next one is done
 
The pinks and the purples
Pause time for a moment
Even when you don’t want to
You just have to condone it
 
The world revolves
With the bad and the good
Someone will teach you
What no one else could
 
And in the end
When all is done
You’ll look for your ships
And find not a one
 
They’ve sailed to the East
And they’ve sailed to the West
And they have left you
Where you will do best

photo credit: paaddor Before the rain storm via photopin (license)
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The Biggest Fan

1/22/2017

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Picture
​I live in a million worlds
And have a million friends
Every day I travel a million miles
To where my journey sends. 

I’ve crossed a hundred oceans
Fought in a dozen wars
I’ve seen the future and the past
And a million places more. 

I’ve been a knight in shinning armor
And a beggar at your door.
I’ve fought monsters in the night 
And found fairies under the floor. 

I’ve climbed the highest mountain 
And swam the deepest sea
I’ve been both hero and villain 
I’ve been caged and I’ve been free. 

Each day another story
Each day another plan
For of the written word
I am the biggest fan. 

photo credit: Some Strange Lady Love books! via photopin (license)
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The House in the Woods

9/17/2016

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Picture
​I went wandering in the woods
Where the tallest trees have grown
When I came upon an old abandoned house
With tall, ivy covered walls of stone.

The windows had long since broken
The shards of glass scattered on the floor
and rust had crusted all the iron 
upon the beautiful, thick, wooden door.

I walked through the garden
With it's flowers long since overgrown 
And when I pulled upon the door
It issued a load and anguished moan.

My feet left trails amid the dust
The walls were yellowed and bare
And in the room not a single thing
Except an old, broken, wooden, chair.

I meandered from the main room
And upon the kitchen stumbled
Next to the old cast iron stove
Part of the wall had crumbled. ​

I made my way up the stairs
That creaked and groaned with every step
In the first room I found nothing
But a small nest where a bird once slept.

Upon the landing I paused
With only one room left to see
And I thought about the other rooms 
And wondered if empty it would be 

My hand grasped the copper knob
It turned and opened with ease
And I stood shocked in the doorway
For what I saw made me freeze.

A little bed sat in the corner
The fabric all rotted away
And on the floor, covered by dust
Lay dolls ready for play.

And upon a tiny table
Sat a cute porcelain tea set
Cups and plates, set for four
One of which was a stuffed toy pet.

I left the room without entering
Not wishing to disturb the scene
For though the sight was very sad
It was also peaceful and serene.

I walked away through the woods
Leaving the abandoned house behind
Trying to think of other things
To drive it from my mind.

But I couldn't help but wonder
Who left the house so bare
Emptied every room but one
As though the child still lived there.

I walked straight, not looking back 
Until the house was blocked by trees
And until those last few moments
I felt someone watching me.

photo credit: dbnunley Stone Chimney via photopin (license)
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I Thought There was Something

4/26/2016

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Picture
​I thought there was something that I should remember. Something precious I should hold dear. I thought there was a person, who should never leave from here. 
If there was such a thing, something I can’t recall, could it really be so bad, if from my memory I let it fall. 
Is it something dangerous, that I should fear deep down. Or is it something else entirely, that  I should let blossom on the ground. 
Is it something that would die, if it left this place. Or is it something prison bound, that wants to get away. 
Should I leave this dreamlike state, and risk not knowing in the end, or should I stay here all my days, trying to remember then. 
I should not go, I should not stay. I should not hide, I should not pray. 
Oh what, Oh what, Oh what should I do. I do not remember, do you?

photo credit: dreamylittledancer The modern Snowithe via photopin (license)
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The Village

1/22/2016

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Picture
​Dawn now comes
Above the trees
A tiny village
For none to see.
A place of quiet
And tranquility
The peace can break
A powerful insecurity.
A curtain covers
Horrendous deeds
To plant among
The harvest seeds.
This quiet village
You will take
And never leave
From its wake.

photo credit: bass_nroll entroTerra via photopin (license)
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The Freedom of Childhood

1/4/2016

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Picture
​I wish that I could hear again 
The shouts and squeals 
of childhood friends
at play, at the party, at fun 

I wonder why I do not know 
What it is like 
To run the show
For the fun to flow around 

I wonder if my child in me 
will one day have what it is 
that she always thought it meant to be free
like that of a little child

As the balloons fly 
with the laughter echos
all through the sky 
Oh wonder oh wonder 

My child you run
you play and you laugh
to watch you have fun 
Takes me right back 

I love the sound
of the pound of your feet 
as you run all around, 
Oh what a treat. 

I love you my children 
Stay this way a while
run and play and laugh and then 
dance and love and grow

photo credit: pom.angers Ragazzina all'Attacco, Pistoia via photopin (license)
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Candle

9/23/2015

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Picture
​Candle whose light burns bright
Amid the darkest veils of night
Cast upon me your warming glow
So that your beauty might yet show.

Candle's flame which seems so fine
Issuing sweet scents of pine
A calming presence to those who care
And who find happiness when you're there.

Candle standing tall and strong 
I know eventually you will be gone
As I watch your wax run down your side
your determination is a thing of pride. 

Candle, dawn has arrived beyond those mountains
A faint light is slowly creeping past the curtains
You're free to wink out and your flame to die
But this will not be our last goodbye

photo credit: mathieujarryphoto bright.candles via photopin (license)
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What Migrant Mother Does

2/9/2015

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Picture
Tired, fatigued and hungry
A family in need
The Migrant Mother thinking
The children need to eat
Traveling down a hard road
Looking for some light
The Migrant Mother searching
For something good and right
The search for work is endless
Everyone is ill
The Migrant Mother works
To hold onto some good will
Driving down the road again
The tire gets a flat
The Migrant Mother fearing
There is no money for that
Baby John is Hungry
Sally Sue is cold
The Migrant Mother trying
To teach them to be bold
Pa tells of better times
Grandma tells of old
The Migrant Mother tells a tale
Of a place with streets of gold.

photo credit: George Eastman Museum Migrant Mother, Nipomo, California via photopin (license)
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    Poetry

    Poetry is different from fiction. It has its own way of inspiring and moving people that fiction alone cannot accomplish. 

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