Wishing and watching and making believe.
Thinking and thanking when hearts are deceived.
Typing and talking, headaches are real.
Speaking and sharing, thoughts are congealed.
Waving and walking, not really there.
Limping and looking, life has gone bare.
Fishing and fasting, hate is relieved.
Feeling and falling, parts are retrieved.
Pacing and praying, hoping to feel.
Loving and living, spirits are healed.
Hyping and hoping, one little prayer.
Laughing and lighting the peace in our care.
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Prose or Poetry? by Sharon Sherman
Beauty lies among these lines
of equal measure, beat and rhyme,
spaced amid the tripping tongue,
a true delight for everyone.
How foul the words that come to me,
(for sure, that"s how it seems to be),
when writing deeds of nastiness,
it claims the power to depress.
But when the words are light and airy,
bespeaking acts of friends or fairy,
twinkles lie among the lines
evoking smiles and fun, this time.
"Oh, Romeo, my Romeo!"
My love has asked where doest thou go.
For romance has its own sweet song,
to move the heart, so right, so wrong.
And if you read this little ditty
looking for an unrhymed gritty,
you'll not be satisfied with these,
these lines of thought that rhyme with ease.
of equal measure, beat and rhyme,
spaced amid the tripping tongue,
a true delight for everyone.
How foul the words that come to me,
(for sure, that"s how it seems to be),
when writing deeds of nastiness,
it claims the power to depress.
But when the words are light and airy,
bespeaking acts of friends or fairy,
twinkles lie among the lines
evoking smiles and fun, this time.
"Oh, Romeo, my Romeo!"
My love has asked where doest thou go.
For romance has its own sweet song,
to move the heart, so right, so wrong.
And if you read this little ditty
looking for an unrhymed gritty,
you'll not be satisfied with these,
these lines of thought that rhyme with ease.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Twas a Writer's Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas and all through the land
the scribes were still writing to give Santa a hand.
They knew this new world was a world of "just me,"
but what could they write that would change it to He?
They 'mmmm'd and they 'ahhh'd from morning to night
and yet had to find the phrases just right.
Oh, Plato! Oh, Byron! Oh, Charles Dickens, please!
Please help us to find the right words with ease.
Dickens, you say! What could be better?
Let's look through his works. He's a master of letters!
I think I have got it. That little boy, Tim.
The one who's so happy. Let's take words from him.
When Santa dropped by to see what they'd done,
They shouted, "God bless us, everyone!"
"Oh, my," he exclaimed. "That's perfect, you know.
How to help others in Christ's birthday show."
I thought I would start adding little snippets of poetry that I write. At least, so I have a record of it. But will continue with the book reviews as I love to read and write, and it gives me a little of both.
the scribes were still writing to give Santa a hand.
They knew this new world was a world of "just me,"
but what could they write that would change it to He?
They 'mmmm'd and they 'ahhh'd from morning to night
and yet had to find the phrases just right.
Oh, Plato! Oh, Byron! Oh, Charles Dickens, please!
Please help us to find the right words with ease.
Dickens, you say! What could be better?
Let's look through his works. He's a master of letters!
I think I have got it. That little boy, Tim.
The one who's so happy. Let's take words from him.
When Santa dropped by to see what they'd done,
They shouted, "God bless us, everyone!"
"Oh, my," he exclaimed. "That's perfect, you know.
How to help others in Christ's birthday show."
I thought I would start adding little snippets of poetry that I write. At least, so I have a record of it. But will continue with the book reviews as I love to read and write, and it gives me a little of both.
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