Time Stands, Still Waiting

Time Stands, Still Waiting

Upside-down brooms bristling pearly condensation.

They sweep up heavy silence into the wind

whooshing delicate strands and seeping slowly

into my bones, expanding with ice

they crack like cemented earth.

Green specialized needles hold no fluttering

of wing, chattering of squirrels.

The only living chatter is my teeth.

Time stands, still waiting for a glint

of sun to wake up splattered mud.

The Legend of the Snowflake Pixies

The Legend of the Snowflake Pixies

There are pixies living on a fluffy cloud

between the earth and the sky.

In winter they work swiftly to enshroud

the earth with snow piled high.

Without being seen, for they are not proud

but rather humble and shy,

they always begin to whisper aloud

where to go as into the air they fly.

You see in the past they vowed

that every raindrop the Sky Lady did cry,

for she was know to sadly sough,

they would catch after falling from her eye.

But the tears they caught started to crowd

that rather little cloud making one pixie sigh

then all the pixies were gleefully wowed

for in the place of the tear a crystal did lie. 

The First Snow of Winter

Yet another poem I wrote when I was younger. I think I remember writing this in middle school.

The First Snow of Winter 

Snowflakes                

dancing                      

encircling                    

each other.

A light                        

dust                            

unintended                 

to smother.

Making                       

a perfect                     

pair.

Floating                      

and wandering                       

through the air.

Whipped by   

winds                         

that swirl.                   

Gliding from  

cotton clouds

of pearl.

Landing                      

gently                         

on the

ground. 

Fluffiness                   

that

diminishes                  

sound.

Snowflakes                

dancing                      

encircling                    

each other.

A delicately                

sprinkled                    

snow                           

cover. 

Spirit

This is yet another poem I wrote when I was eleven. It's funny how I still feel this way when the wind blows and about the moon. Some things just never change.

Spirit

The wind is a spirit

That touches my cheek

And it brings me up

When I’m feeling weak

Now it’s night &

There’s no light

The moon shines down bright

as a helpful friend

Weeds?

Weeds?

Scattered upon a grassy hill

are yellow suns

bursting from green.

A hand pulls the suns

and tosses them aside

unaware of what potential

they hide.

At this sight I sigh

and internally cry.

Why! Oh why?!

Do you make my relatives die.

I try

to see the destroyers

face

and find to much

disgrace

my reflection in its

place.

Soul Feeling

Soul Feeling

I want to feel

it all around me

to return back to

a time of purity

to feel warm and cold

air on my skin

sweeping around me

in a circular motion

to feel water

lift me up

in serenity

to feel fire glow

on my face

and blood flowing

wildly through me

to feel earth between

my toes and on

the soles of my feet

but what I want most of all

is to feel my soul

to stop the Fall and

find complete peace

Only then will I

feel complete

Rose Water

Rose Water

sweet nectar sleeping on my lips

a pure sun kiss on the moon

bliss that binds us all

something to be awakened soon

Rose Vine

Rose Vine

enclosed around the tree

tightly and warmly clinging

bright red blooms springing

climbing through the air and to the sun

sun being a mystical source of life

Inner Self

Inner Self

In the wind, I hear the voices of spirits.

In the water, I see reflecting emotions on my face.

In the fire, I feel warmth dancing on my skin.

In the earth, I grow flowers in the spring.

In the morning, I greet the sunrise.

In the night, I say goodnight to the moonlight.

In the nature around me, I feel divinity.

In myself, I feel my soul as it should be.