Harp strings over the woodland mist Such shiverings of endless prayer That never seem to say goodbye They only seek to keep you there, And steeped in woods of long gone days Of Summer green and Autumn sky Are dryads of the ancient ways That dance as whispering treetops sigh.
A poet who repairs church floors Knows many ways to write his rhymes So many paths, so many lanes That lead to oh so many times, Yet many know his cottage light And each one knows him by his name Each is a friend who needs his help And see in him a kindly flame.
And up ahead, the village green Where giant oak trees spread their arms And on their bench under its shade They chatter as the evening calms, As the poet passes they say hello And wish him well upon his walk Down by the riverside once more Where birdsong glows and soft winds talk.
Old Meg looked up and smiled at him She gathered herbs here every day To cure the village people’s ills And take their miseries away, Soon he turns and wanders home A poet walking all alone Though as he walked, his dream came too And they’d both chat upon the phone…
My boo boo what have we become, I’m so depressed an all alone. I’m desperate and somewhat oppressed, What’s a man to do when he’s distressed. Try to touch you but to no avail, All my efforts are quickly unrailed.
Away from the crowd She whispered her tale. To the cresting waves, To the frothy foam, To the flying seagulls, They knew her soul. They were waiting for her To wash her heart. She left the remains, She was carrying
You turned your back on me today didn’t even have the guts to say, Cast out like a homeless person Only teaching me one more lesson. I was slowly getting my life back Seeing me fight barriers and tears, Finding
Little lady only 13. Never pretty enough but smart as can be. No friends just books. Mom overworked so no dinner just lonely. She was bullied for years: isolated in insecurity, abandonment, and unhappiness until she was 17. Senior year