Is this a game I am playing myself?
A dream?  If so when shall I  wake?
Falling thru space and never landing
Fear becoming boring then it must-It
It will yield.  This too shall pass and I
Am not dead. Another dream perhaps?
Lord hear my prayer for better dreams
To come,,,and the best  lasr: Be Always
:











falli

Dear woods forgive me for hurrying on
I would stay to know your blessed peace
But I must way; I am not ready now to
Stop and gaze and be gratified. be and be
I must away. Why?  Because I am not yet
Ready to accept things as they are  To let
Be what will ne.  I would return if God
Permits.  If I can but cannot linger now
But must find out if there is something
More Imust dp; that must be done to be
Saved.  God give me rest.  Save my soul
From ever hurrying on to an  unquiet end

A pebble in a sea of glass

shattered mind raindrops

fragile as broken cobwebs

sun strong and shadow deep

infinite and fleeting

planet sized in the palm of your hand

belief is everything

and nothing at all

I would like to write a poem
That would make her dance
I would like to kiss her kindly
In the fields of France

I would like to talk for hours
Under a strawberry moon
Still strange but nice
Crazy as a loon

               Flaming June.

there's a world inside your mind
and it wants you to find
a place for others,
without changing
the bookshelves
the music
or the way that you walk through the door.
It might be the means of replacing
the fear which stops you from living
and giving
and laughing
as yourself.

What made
us so beautiful
Is that we
were never
likely to happen,
And here we are;
Pretending
to be oblivious
To the obvious
love waves
Bouncing back
and forth
Between
our hearts
This thing
Is a never
ending start...
Where the moments
we are meant to share,
Are carelessly
forced apart.

poetry it started many years ago
with a pen and paper and words with a flow
righting from the heart there feelings they would show
many different poets that we got to know

wordsworth keats and burns  blake and bronte to
there are many more these are just a few
burns he loved  wee beaties wordsworth daffodil
  where he wrote his poem sitting on a hill

poetry still  goes on theres millions write today
carring on the greats no so far away
they put the wheels in motion there legacy goes on
thanks to all the greats that are dead and gone