This, our precious planet,. Whose seasons I knew well,. Protects itself from us,. Outside the wind bellows,. And the rooftops quiver,. From weather now altered,. To voice a discontent,. The degree to which I,.

Nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands. OR SCREAM IN ALL CAPS. Or if you need a prompt you can check out one of the past prompts, like the Shadorma. The bar is open just for you.

I hope those of you in the valley will come to my free poetry reading this Monday,. Meanwhile, here is a Halloween poem for you all. As they age, old vampires start to soften. They seek out fewer victims. Even then, they steer. Toward the sick, the dying. Delaying in their coffins well past moonrise. And there, they pause to weep. Shrinks to a flimsy craving.

A fear of The Fear. Unknown to me that I could be. Free of worries that have crowded me. I sat there praying for my safety. As the wind scraped my face and my body. While sitting on a machinery. That was said to be of no safety. In shocking view of my reality. I realized that Fear was just my imagery. It had no way of knowing my ability. And therefore I broke my dependency. Freedom replaced the Fear in me. The Motorbike Freed the whole of me.

8221; has been elected this week for the Weekly Poem. On the Oz Poetic Society. Thank you Oz Poetic Society! Animated crickets sing away silence;. Whip round in wondrous brilliance. While wind chimes clang tinny tunes.

Words and photos all mine. Stone Heart and the Gull. The heather- tweed, cable knit jumper. In Memoriam for Dverse Poets. Mark it and Move on. More than You Can See.

A deep,dark,lonely well. Filled with wishes desperately hoped for. With many a secret untold. From the faint,bitter taste of salt. From whence tears did fall. A well can run shallow. When the dark,hidden rivers fail. And the rain passes by. Oh the darkest well of my silent soul. My sorrow it dost hold. Of which none will never know.

These dreams are like bubbles. Floating on the whims of the winds of the day. Some land in my hair and get tangled there. I wash them out, try to wash them out,. But they come back like a chronic pain. The past is a knife cutting the same wound,. And now there is no blood when I am cut. I have left blood dripping all around me,. You can follow that to find me.