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| A pegasus lay sleeping On the soft moss covered ground White wings twitching as it dreamed Of everything that's earthbound How difficult it would be With no chance at all to fly Never to feel the pure thill Of winging your way so high No rush of wind against you As you soar and swoop and dive Powerful wings are beating How else could you feel alive The pegasus lay dreaming Of a life it would not try Thankful for its mighty wings That allowed it in the sky |
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| Rebecca I am reminded every day How precious life can be Know that I'll never go away You are a part of me You give me joy, you give me hope That things will all work out With you with me I'll always cope Of that I have no doubt I love that cheeky grin you have The sparkle in your eye You are someone I'll always love Beautiful child of mine |
| We live in a world that's against us Full of broken hopes and shattered dreams All our ideals tend to turn to dust And nothing is ever as it seems What can we do to get through this How can we survive week by week No magic lamp that grants our wish And gives us the answers we seek But relief is never far away Just look within and then you'll see All have the strength to get through each day Trust in yourself, that's all you need Society tends to confine us To something perceived as the 'norm' But just being yourself is the best Way to find happiness of your own |
| ANZAC - A Tribute I saw him today His head bowed, his eyes low Reminiscing over old times The War, his mates, who lived And died for their country And for their friends How proud he is. But they're not around any more All gone, no-one left Those who managed to survive war Didn't manage to survive life But instead, Death Whose dark, threatening claws engulfed and suffocated them One by one Now fighting their forgotten war He fights it too In his mind. A shadow crosses his eyes And he frowns Holding his medals Only pieces of tin But sacred to an old man Who lives on memories. Gallipoli One of the first he was Having to cope with the mistake The Big Brass made. Fighting insurmountable odds But always keeping their heads high And approaching the Apocalypse With a shrug of shoulders And a joke. Life was harsh God had no mercy (Neither did the Turks) Hundreds dying each day Many who you knew Maybe for their lifetime Maybe for a minute But the feelings were still the same You had lost your mate. Mates They were all mates there Pushed together through an honour They had to uphold FIGHT FOR YOUR COUNTRY The poster said Be proud to fight. And they were For the first few attacks Where their mates were slaughtered Butchered like a young lamb And in their prime Pity. But they wouldn't give up They were the ANZACs The proud Aussies and New Zealanders Who fought in a war That did more harm than good But don't all wars do? He closes his eyes now His medals slip out of his hand And clatter to the ground One sigh, and then He joins his mates to fight The forgotten battle Forever. |
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| Mists of Time Through the swirling mists of time he comes Leading a horse as black as coal With his knowing eyes It's no suprise That he disturbs your very soul Through the swirling mists of time he comes Closer, Closer and as he nears You've known him before And you can't ignore The rousing of forgotten fears Through the swirling mists of time he comes Hidden behind his sable cape In your mind you scream This is just a dream And desperately you try to wake Through the swirling mists of time he comes And now his face you recognise When he takes your wrist You do not resist You both have lived a thousand lives Through the swirling mists of time he comes A friend and lover from the past As he leads you away Softly he says, "This time we'll both make it last." |
| Seasons Spring was when she was born and as life is renewed; she bloomed into a beautiful young woman, her smile the sun, her eyes the twilight sky. While her presence, warm and enveloping, nurtured those around her. Summer was the peak of her existence, hot and sultry with promises of balmy nights and long lazy days. Her radiance was blinding to those who looked at her too long and little did we know how badly all would be burned. Autumn was when the cancer was found, a seed planted in the spring, cultivated by summer and now sprouting. As the leaves changed color and fell, so did her hair. In great golden clumps it disappeared, leaving her head bare, a diseased elm waiting for winter but still her spirit shone. Winter brought the storms of pain as her body grew weaker. Barricaded by the snow of drugs, she rarely ventured out but remained inside, trying vainly to keep warm by the fire of her soul. But as winter slowly enfolds the world, the cancer�s hold on her grew, blanketing her, reluctant to let go. She was buried in the spring and as the Seasons; her life had come full circle. |
| The Artist �Art is your interpretation of life.� said the teacher, a large woman wearing a purple caftan and red beads. �Create your masterpiece!� The man modeling for us reclined on the chair; a pose, I guess, he thought seductive spoilt by the pot-belly and flaccid penis, pushed to one side like an unwanted sausage. I painted, but the image in my mind didn�t transpose to canvas and was left with what looked like a monkey painted by a 5 year old. �Mmm...� the teacher mused, looking anywhere but at my creation while she gushed over the next student's work, the canvas painted black. A blind man�s perspective perhaps? I next tried my hand at poetry, but my submission about love lost and found and lost again was rejected in favor of 5 words centered on a page. I am who I am. My clay pot leaked and listed dangerously to the side. My photographs developed with a black line across the lens. �Most likely the camera strap.� was the snickered reply. My singing scared the cat. My acting scared the kids. My drawings became lining for the bird cage. I became despondent and moody. Isn�t that the mark of a true artist? It didn�t work for me. Never would I create anything beautiful and artistic. Then I looked at my children. I had created them. Molded them with loving hands into delightful treasures. Exquisite sculptures alive with beauty and love. I AM AN ARTIST! |
| A Rolling Stone �A rolling stone gathers no moss,� were the last words you said as you walked out of my life to roll along the highway in your old blue Ford. But the old proverb didn�t mention the debris left in the wake of your passing, the unpaid bills, the car bodies decaying in the yard, the sheriff after your whereabouts, the still forming life growing inside me. You took me by surprise, tumbling into my life when I least expected it, and swept me off my feet in an avalanche of passion I mistook for love. But I could never chip away your rough exterior to reveal the uncut diamond beneath. You always kept your distance hiding behind proverbs to disguise your true intentions. When I told you I was pregnant, you said, �As soon as a man is born he begins to die,� and started packing. What the hell did that mean? I�m glad you�ve gone. In a way you�ve released me, preventing me from following you blindly over the precipice your life is rolling toward. And the pebble you have planted in me will soon become a pearl. In time, placed in the setting of my choice, something beautiful will emerge. You just keep rolling along, and as your life erodes from the constant movement, I will stay here, content to let the moss grow. |