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| A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows. ~Doug Larson |
| First day of Spring The first day of spring is supposed to be sunny With a hint of the warmth chasing away the chill Followed by the echoing chirps of birds, And the laughter of children escaping their homes, But instead, the chill still lurks, Dropping snowflakes upon us, Covering the land in sheet of white. |
| Traveling amongst the weeds Traveling amongst the weeds, tall and twisted, Looking above and watching the horror of the night, With shattered stems and frozen stones Littering the path adulthood. TRaveling amongst the weeds, curved and blooming, Looking below and watching the earth, Worms wiggling here and there, Insects buzzing here and there Here I am, watching the shattered pieces. Traveling amongst the weeds, twisted and warped, Feeling at home amongst them as I look around, Seeing not the simple weeds, the pest of the garden, But seeing instead, a testimont of life, For a weed has adapted to its world, Becoming one with it, and surviving no matter what! If you say that traveling amongst the weeds Is not for you, then think of them not as weeds But as visions of beauty yet to bloom, Yet to become their full potential, Knowing that someday, even the weeds will bloom. |
| A weed is but an unloved flower. ~Ella Wheeler Wilcox |
| What is a weed? I have heard it said that there are sixty definitions. For me, a weed is a plant out of place. ~Donald Culross Peattie |
| What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, Fortune of the Republic, 1878 |
| The Threshold I've stood upon the threshold Between innocence and despair, Staring into a pair of brown eyes, Feeling the terror and rumbling clouds. I've stood upon the threshold Between glistening tears and laughter Listening to the nights sounds And the rumble of my fear. I've stood upon the break of dawn Hearing laughter, innocent and sweet, A child's giggle and her voice Calling to me, begging me to answer, But I stood upon the threshold. The future is a question As I stand here, lost and confused Knowing tomorrow is tomorrow But what will be --- I know not, shivering in fear Upon the threshold. |
| "The Threshold" was published in AWS, 1998 newsletter. |
| If I thought of myself as a plant, I'd be a weed for a weed no matter what is done to it, or what happens to it, it always returns and struggles to be. |
| Rose Garden Petals of blood, lust and bright Hint of passion, a blessing to come And I heard a sweet whisper "I never promised you a rose garden." Tears slid down my cheeks, Watching you walk away. Thorns pricking my fingertips As I hold its frail limbs betwixt them, Watching memized as drops of blood Tumble to the ground, vanishing And again I heard the words, "I never promised you a rose garden." Nature's tears fall, drenching the earth. Quenching its thirst, as I reach outward, Reaching for your hand, for a sign, And again I hear the soft whisper, "I never promised you a rose garden." With a nervous giggle, I wanted to shout Shout for all to hear, for all to know, I never wanted a rose garden, All I ever wanted was you! But again, I hear the soft whisper And with frozen tears I watched you walk away. |
| Remember me Revision of this poem was published in Poetry Plus magazine. Remember me as I am And not as I was For once I was But a child, lost and scared. I tumbled through life Along waves of confusion Buried within my own pain. Now, I am no longer a child But an adult Facing my past And living my life. So remember me As I am And not as I was. |
| I remember all that was, I know all that could have been, but trapped in a cycle, knowing it couldn't stay, I walked away, always to remember, what should have, could have been! |
| Words I am I can do so much more Then one can know For I can bring the seeds of truth Or the bitterness of spilled lies As I travel on my way. I can do so much more If only I'd listened, And heard without a blemish, For I am just words, Words spoken in rage Or a loving thought, But still, I am just words. I can do so much more To end the lies, Spilling the truth, But I'm only words Upona whisper or a shout Waiting to be heard Or spoken. I can do so much more Then one can know For I can break the spell of silence Or carry it to a silent grave For I am just words Waiting to be spoken Or heard byr a friend. |
| You've got a lot of choices. If getting out of bed in the morning is a chore and you're not smiling on a regular basis, try another choice. ~Steven D. Woodhull |
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| This page consist of the following poems: * |
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