The Morning Garden by RSHunter
As I step beyond the security of my shelter, my home
I find myself overcome
within fresh, new sensations.
The visual is stunning and
the audible tugs tenderly at my emotions
but it is the smells that impress me the
most.
With eyes closed and outstretched arms, reaching
as if trying to grasp onto the nothingness that surrounds me,
I savor the aromas as they
assault every fiber of my being.
The Roses play with my sensations as a yellow plays with the canvas.
Then without warning, a
brilliant dash of reds and oranges
dance the Tango with my mind.
It is almost too much to bear, that is until the calmness of the
Iris blues slowly overtake my being, teasing my world
back to the
reality of the moment.
My gardens morning gift to me...
The Ocean's Creatures
by Daisy Malan - Age 10
The ocean, a beautiful place where all sorts of creatures come out to play.
Whales make large splashes in the glittery blue water.
Dolphins swim in circles trailing a ribbon of bubbly water behind.
Starfish doze in the warm sand. Sometimes otters swim by to meet the creatures.
Humpback whales make mountains of water and sing songs.
Fish twirl below and cradle their eggs.
The creatures whisper to each other near the rocky edges.
Porpoises rocket through the water like a tornado.
The ocean is like a mirror for these creatures
to whirl with ease into their reflections
All sorts of animnals in the ocean rushing to find someone to play with.
Day and Night
by RSHunter
It all starts with a yawn; with outstretched jaw
Stretching lifeless arms, reaching high into the sky
Old popping bones and a moan of awakening awe
All brought together, climaxed with a blissful sigh
What is it about the warmth of the nighttime nest
The cocoon that engulfs us, wrapped up tight
A naked floor patiently waiting to tickle at our feet
A fleeting memory of what was the dream filled night
This is the day, much like the rest
As I stand up tall, pounding my chest
All I can do is to do my best
As nighttime approaches, it's back to the nest
As slumber overtakes me, eye lids surrendering their fight
My thoughts start floating above, dancing in awe
Suddenly, I am in the other reality, the dream filled night
Only to be awakened by a yawn, with outstretched jaw
We are HIS hands and feet
By Arthur Holderbaum-Bachmann
"I don't understand diabetes ! How come Grandma's hands are black !"
"The doctor cut-off her feet ! Now, her hands...Grandpa, I want Grandma back !"
"We don't always understand God's will. Let's pray in the garden, Little One." "We'll pray for healing and peace. Take my hand, let's walk in the sun."
"No !" Sob. "We did that last time ! They still cut-off her feet. God doesn't hear !""God won't help!" Yellow sun on Little One's face and golden in a single falling tear.
I go to my garden alone. There's dew on Grandma's roses... God HIMSELF, HIS wisdom HE discloses.
Cheerful and clean hospital. Pristine operating theater. Who wants to throw Grandma's hands and feet in the incinerater ?
In every time of hardship or peace,
I always seek happiness in the garden because I know: Praise God from who all blessings flow.
Praise Him with joy all ye creatures here below !
Sisters Apart
by RSHunter
The day, the norm, without a care
Three sisters, bonded, eternal share
The heart as one, life’s blood pulsating
Sadness, despair, patiently waiting
How long the bliss of childhood lasting
Youthful thoughts and dreams now wasting
Scream loudly, tearful eyes,
"GOD WHY, GOD PLEASE"
The day no longer norm, dropped to your knees
Three sisters, still bonded, why did she depart
What was once as one, now shattered apart
A brand new angel, prematurely born
Those left behind forever mourn
The years now passed with generations new
Cloudless skies, vastly painted with blue
The heart, now in three, still beats, pulsating
God’s new angel, my guardian, patiently waiting
Poets Thoughts...
This poem is dedicated to the three sisters, Stephenie, Lynett and God's New Angel Jennifer.
The tattoo pictured above, on the ankles of Stephenie and Lynett, was designed by R.S. Hunter. The
Heart represents the love each sister has for each other. The two top pieces, come together, and
represent the two sisters Stephenie and Lynett, finally finding each other, after so many years apart.
The third piece, slightly seperated but still very much a part of the Heart represents sister Jennifer,
who tragically died in a house fire, many many years ago. The pain is still there, and tears still fall,
but through God's love and understanding, the healing begins.
Joy Daisy Malan- Age 10
Joy of seeing my family near me.
Joy of getting an envelope with my name written on it.
Joy of following through in things.
Joy of waking up in the morning after
a good night of sleep.
Joy of discovering something new.
Joy of seeing my dad pull into the driveway
in his black jeep.
Joy of seeing a bright glow of sunlight in the morning.
Joy of coming home.
Joy of getting a phone call.
Joy of growing.
Joy of knowing I’m safe in God’s hands.
Joy of having joy
The Loud and the Proud
By Michael Schierer - age 12
Oh no! Oh no! Who did that?
What did we hear at dinner as we sat?
Looking around at family, I wondered who?
We all were puzzled, nobody knew.
And then, it happened, a giggle started.
A snicker, a chuckle, not wholehearted.
The laughter rose to a gut-busting roar.
Who let out that burp that rattled the door?
The giggler’s the one with manners so bad.
The giggler should be ashamed, and sad.
Who was the giggler? Everyone knew.
There she sat red-faced, wearing blue.
My mom! I can’t believe she did that!
She did the burp that scared the cat!
“I’m sorry” she whispered, all shy and not loud.
My mom did that and for it her son’s proud.
My mom could be tough, good manners and more.
But she’s still a fun kid and NOT a bore.
{a poem written for Mom for Mother’s Day}
The Following Pieces Were Submitted by Poet Michael Zarifis
{These Works were inspired by the paintings of Liz Von Isser}
Depth of Grace
by Michael Zarifis
As you lay,
quietly,
peacefully,
on the cool,
soft,
ivory linen,
I touch the goldenrod hair,
which frames your face,
soft, and delicately brush
your misty rose cheeks,
your light pink lips,
the soft beige skin of your shoulders.
Your eyelids open slowly,
like petals in the morning.
As your olive green eyes smile
and the sweat glistens on your breast,
we look into each other,
and know,
the seed we planted in the garden
will grow.
Poets Thoughts ...
I created this poem by taking words which describe the painting and building
a poem around those words.
FULL of POSSIBILITIES
by Michael Zarifis
Your dreams I hold in the folds of my heart.
From the cool saffron
of sunrise,
to the warm amaranth
of sunset,
and every moment and shade in between.
The memory of you,
dances,
like ripples on water,
in my imagination.
Poets Thoughts . . .
Saffron is the color associated with the Greek goddess of dawn, Eos, who opened the sky in the
morning. Amaranth is a flower in mythology which, like love, never dies
Whirled Peace
by Michael Zarifis
The perfect Rosaceae.....without blemish.
No Maladie du bord jaune.
No Athelia rolfsii.
Exquisite!!
You turn it.
You view it
from all angles.
Nothing!
Spotless!
Perfection in between your finger and thumb.
One of many,
yet,
of many, this one
is
the one!
Placed in a vortex,
destined for destruction with
Elsie's gift
and tzatziki
and the cold!
THE COLD!
As the Rosaceae spins deeper...
deeper...
deeper into the vortex,
it disapears as if into a black hole.
Never
to be seen
again!
And through waves of the swirling...
whirling tempest
is destroyed.
Yet from its destruction,
the juices of the crimson Rosaceae
through the ripples
become carnation;
through the waves
become cherry blossom;
and through disambiguation
become tea rose
Staring into the vortex
deeper,
deeper,
deeper,
you wait for the perfect moment.
The destruction is complete,
total,
irreversible.
There is but one thing left to do.
The one thing which will make the
carnage worth while.
Pour and drink!!!
Smoooooothieeeeee!
Poets Thoughts . . .
This poem was not only inspired by Liz's picture, but also, her comment. Rosaceae-the family of
plants including strawberries
Maladie du bord jaune and Athelia rolfsii are names of blight or fungus
which strawberries get Elsie's gift-milk...DUH! tzatziki-a Greek style
yogurt disambiguation-another
word for waves
BLUE DREAMS
by Michael Zarifis
One...two...three...
Her skin of persian rose,
as delicate as rice paper,
belies the strength of her spirit.
Blue veins, like roadmaps of her life,
course through her tender, genteel hands.
Twenty...twenty-one...twenty-two...
Her sky blue eyes gaze into the mirror
and study the once brown,
now silver hair,
flowing like a shimmering waterfall,
over the indigo robe,
and past her waist.
Sixty-nine...seventy...seventy-one...
And on the nightstand,
the tortise-shell combs
and the platinum fob
count time.
Ninety- eight...ninety-nine...one-hundred.
Poets Thoughts . . .
The first thing that came to mind when I looked at the picture was the
colors are so iridescent
they reminded me of mother-of-pearl. They also
reminded me of Victorian era tortise shell combs,
which led me, of
course, to O. Henry
DELICATE DANCE
by Michael Zarifis
The amber, mauve sunset...
A quiet explosion of tangerine, plum,
and amarant.
Pacific Palisades-2001
Both run their hands softly,
gently,
with care,
over the decks:
her's, lavender,
his', cobalt.
The deafining thunder
roars in the distance
from the persian blue breaking water,
as if the Siren's are urging them on
to mount Poseidon's Swell one last time.
They stand quietly
staring out to the horizon.
The cool mist and warm breeze
becken silently,
as if urged on by the words of Brian Wilson.
Paddling together,
side by side,
as if driven by the same desire,
both begin their journey to catch the
last,
big,
wave.
100 fathoms from shore,
they make their turn
and wait,
passing up one wave,
and another,
and another.
While looking into each other's eyes,
they feel THE wave
THE one.
Thrashing violently
they move atop the unseen wave
they know is there.
As the wave takes over they stand,
arms outstreched,
as if on a wire.
The wave grows taller
speeds faster,
and screams louder.
They waltz back and forth,
as dancers on a fluid floor
four fathoms high.
They fly down the face
with the wave howling at their heels
till the crest crashes down,
a swirling wall of foam into which
they disappear.
Emerging from the mist
they ride it out to shore,
then pick up their boards,
and while holding hands,
the spirits of Frankie and Annette,
disappear into the sand on the beach,
and into the sands of time.
Poets Thoughts . . .
I have never been surfing, though I have always wanted to try. When I
look at Liz's painting,
I see a monster wave and imagine being able to
see the sun through the pipeline. I don't really
think that it is
possilble to see all the way through one at any given time. Fortunately,
being a
romantic, I get to see one in my mind and in her painting.
I got on youtube and watched people ride super-huge waves and thought
how truely graceful
they looked. Then one came up with two people who
looked as though they were dancing on the
wave.
Moon Walking on the Moon
by R.S. Hunter
His flavor unknown, never before heard
Touching our hearts, overflowing, compassion
Misunderstood, mysterious, marvelous, magnificent
Heal the Earth, mending deep wounds, his mission
A single glove glows, as if to cover, becoming his curtain
Beyond genius, unique, an unsurpassed creation
All gathered to celebrate his marvels, his art, his song
When trouble was near, he fought alone, all others were gone
Un-rested spirit, searching, not finding, continued quest
Now a father, responsible, accountable, no rest
Heavy burden, stresses pushing, tearful eyes, heaving chest
Still he fights, ventures forward, never to surrender
While "Rock with You" penetrates your soul, your spirit
The "Smooth Criminal", shocks, as dancing the "Thriller"
"Beat it", his cry, for global peace, love and harmony
As "Billie Jean" ignores "the Man in the Mirror"
A tragedy, misfortune, miscalculation of dose
His spirit now soaring bows before his Holy Host
The world’s collaborative mourn, screams out “Too Soon”
Our ambassador is now at peace, moon walking on the moon
Poets Thoughts . . .
A
Tribute To Michael Jackson - Born August 29th, 1958 - Died June 26th
2009. Like most of you,
this artist was an important part of my
foundation. I remember where I was and what I was doing
when I first
heard him perform as the Jackson 5 on the Ed Sullivan Show. I remember
the words to
"Ben" and especially remember "I Want You Back" as I had
just broken up with a girl friend and yes,
I wanted her back. An
elderly friend of mine was upset at the size of the Memorial in Los
Angeles on
July 7th, 2009. He doesn’t understand why this kid is getting
more media coverage then royalty. He
actually said that one of the
reasons he was not pleased was because there were other great
performers
who received nothing more than mere mention upon their passing. Case in
point, Sammy
Davis Jr. Now I agree, Sammy was entertaining, but
"Great", I think not. Michael Jackson was in a
class of his own. May GOD
and all of the angels in heaven, give this humanitarian everlasting
peace.
I can see it now...the angels are taking music classes from
Michael, cherub’s moon walking, and GOD
smiling.
The Midnight Pool’s Changes
by Daisy Malan - Age 10
The midnight pool’s shimmering water is like blue velvet.
It stretches out leaving a glassy coating of black-blue water.
In the dark water, a bright yellow reflection of the moon shines on it.
Seeming like it has been untouched by human hands.
Little white dots dab the swimming pool.
The shiny reflection of the midnight stars.
They burn with desire to touch the water.
Their glowing faces gleaming with beauty.
The house’s outside light flickers a shade of orange
across the deserted pool.
The evening moon shifts as the night grows longer.
The sun peeks up behind the grassy hill in which the cows graze from.
The light from the sun shines with a beautiful light of yellow.
The stars’ reflections gradually disappear from the pool’s water.
The moon fades into the blue sky and the sun takes its spot.
Beaming with pride, the sun lights up the sky.
The black-blue water vanishes in the pool turning into a light blue color.
The pool, the day, the light of the sun.
The Blue Morpho Butterfly
by Daisy Malan - Age 10
A blue insect glides across the sky.
Its gentle wings soaring into the clear blue sky.
The Blue Morpho Butterfly flies effortlessly and lands on a ruby red rose.
It takes a drink fulfilling its thirst with the appetizing nectar.
As it swoops back into the wind, its wings flutter beside.
Farther, and farther it flies, its wings looking like the deep blue shade of the sea.
Its black body following the sea-blue wings, off into the world of mysterious.
Gliding, soaring, coasting, making it seem like the wings of an angel.
The black tips on the butterfly’s wings shadow darker,
and look glassy in the light of the orange sun.
God’s creation floating away, getting smaller and smaller,
the beauty of this creature is unimaginable.
How a little caterpillar eating the leaves of a tree,
can transform into the magnificent creature known as the butterfly.
Its grace showing off as it flies away disappearing,
until it is unseen.
Poets Thoughts . . .
I just adore describing things in poems...
Feed My Sheep
by R.S. Hunter
Crying
Pleading
Begging
Please
Hurting
Naked
Filthy
Alone
Embarrassed
Withdrawn
Isolated
Ignored
Drugs
Rape
Boose
Abuse
Dirty sign
Food line
Gospel saves
Unmarked graves
God bless
A giving caress
Societies mess
Homelessness
Poets Thoughts . . .
As
I work on my next project, a heart wrenching novel entitled "Will
Work 4 Food" I am spending
a lot of time interviewing those who are less
fortunate then us, the homeless. The one thing I find in
common, with
everyone I talk to is a drug or alcohol addiction that prevents their
minds from
processing information properly, thus they become the scorn
of our society. To learn a little more
about my project, please read the
"About Us" tab on this website . . . As Jesus said, "Feed my sheep" . .
.
There are amazing facilities, like the Gospel Rescue Mission,
Primavera and Casa Maria Food Kitchen,
who do just that, feed the lost,
not only with food, but with spiritual guidance as well. You too can
help, by contacting your local shelter and making a contribution, today .
. .
Homelessness
by Diana V. Figueroa
You look through me like I don’t exist
When I walk by you clench your fist
You don’t know me
Yet you judge me
Walk a mile in my shoes
You’ll see you can’t shake the booze
I don’t want to be here
I just need someone to lend an ear
I am human too
Tell me what can I do?
I have a face
Don’t let me vanish without a trace
I’ve fallen so far into the dark
Now I am living in a park
I know my family cares
But I am in so much despair
God help me and don’t let me stray
I’ve already thrown it all away
I have children, I had a wife
And here I lie fighting for my life
Poets Thoughts;
I
wrote this poem in a writing class about a year after my dad had
passed. The writing was great therapy for me. It helped me work through
things and prepared me to be able to speak of my dad's story now.
Ice Cream
by Daisy Malan - Age 10
Waiting in line for an ice cream cone
Two people away from my delicious dessert
One person leaves carrying a chocolate ice cream
One person away from getting mine!
I quiver with delight as I face the cashier
This hot Monday afternoon is no surprise!
I ask for a vanilla ice cream cone
With little red sprinkles, and a cherry on top!
And I reminded him to not forget the caramel sauce
I wait and wait, my face hot and sweaty
Then finally the cashier says, “Here is your order, now don’t let it melt!”
I nod and grab my ice cream, leaving as I look carelessly at my scrumptious snack
The mustard colored caramel oozes down the sides
My cherry atop is a perfect round ball
I can’t wait till my tongue touches this treat!
I stick out my tongue to lick, and as soon as it touches the melting ice cream
I feel like my tongue just went up to heaven
I eagerly lick the tasty cold ice cream, then happily munching on the cone
I quickly stop.
My dessert is gone, and I get back in line
Ten people away from getting my treat!
Poets Thoughts . . .
As you can tell, I really like Ice Cream . . .
Ava likes the zoo in Spring, too !
by
Arthur Holderbaum-Bachman
Ava likes the zoo in Spring, too !
She knows most animals, birds, fishes, whales,
insects, plants & trees are threatened or extinct.
Little children can help, what can they do ?
Ava knows that God made the creation first because
WE need THEM all ! People need animals, forests,
mountains, and seas. People are stewards of earth's life,
whether flying, crawling, swimming, short, or tall !
Ava knows that every animal at the zoo eats special food.
She never gives them her snacks, crackers, or lunch ! She
never drops her Tippy-Cup or garbage in their habitat or
makes a mess. That would not be Good ! Ava's a good
steward and cleans-up after herself like she should !
Ava hopes to volunteer at the zoo someday ! Until then, she
practices caring for her own Tippy-Cup, snacks, crackers,
lunch, and cleaning-up her own messes. Oh boy ! The zoo needs
volunteers ! Hoo-ray !
Poet's Thoughts...
Genesis 1:19-27
And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.
And
God said, “Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature
that hath life,
and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open
firmament of heaven.”
And
God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which
the waters
brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged
fowl after his kind: and God
saw that it was good.
And God blessed them, saying, “Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and
let fowl multiply in the earth.”
And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.
And
God said, “Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his
kind, cattle, and
creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind:
and it was so.”
And
God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their
kind, and
verything that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and
God saw that it was good.
And
God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let
them have
dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the
air, and over the cattle, and
over all the earth, and over every
creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.”
So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.
John 3:16
For
God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son Immanuel the
Christ, that
whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have
everlasting life.
The End ? Not yet...
THE CROSSROADS
by R.S. Hunter
The crossroad before him quietly waits up ahead
Which way he should go, to be alive or be dead
A struggle with the Devil, the darkness of hell
Which path to select? His decision: Decide well
Stumbling, falling, arguing with the strife
Lies that deny him his freedom of life
Accused, abused, thorns upon his crown
Satan’s bitter wrath lashes out, beating him down
Heart like stone, never a moments rest
The projects, his streets, the fight is his caress
Bloody steel pierced skin, and a broken bone
He has no choice, this hell is his home.
The shadows call, “Come play with me”
The Grim Reaper flirts with sensual glee
The darkness, his world, his comfort zone
Shadows call continues, “Come hither, die alone”
The crossroad up ahead by the side of the lake
Wisdom of age, a decision to make
The battle was long, leaving him scarred and so old
His salvation finally won upon that crossroad
Poets Thoughts . . .
This
poem is based on my latest book titled "Cross Roads...the Louis Lugo
Story." This biography
tells the story of what it was like for the
Reverend Louis Lugo to be raised upon the streets of
Brooklyn's
projects. The gangs are his family and his anger his only companion.
This gangster did
it all, and served some serious time for it. David
Wilkerson came to Louis' neighborhood and
evangelized to anyone who
would listen. David's book "The Cross and the Switchblade" tells the
story of his failures and successes. Nicky Cruz, a Mau Mau gang leader
(and Louis Lugo's uncle)
was one of the first ones saved by David’s
constant preaching and wrote a book of his own "Run
Baby Run." Those who
knew Louis Lugo back then were smart to run. Louis was someone you
should have been afraid of; that is until he saw the light, decades
later. Now it is the Reverend Louis
Lugo who is telling the story, one
graphic detail after another.
DIEPPE
By Sgt. R.S. Hunter
They were only a few−but a few of the best.
They were young and eager and proud.
And as they set off, on their honored quest,
“We won’t let you down,” they vowed.
And Canada watched, with head held high.
As they landed and met the Hun.
And nobly and bravely her young sons died,
With the cry on their lips, “Carry on.”
All hell was let loose−and the day wore on.
And the beach of Dieppe was red.
But the battle that day was glorious
Though many a hero had bled.
Twenty months they had waited−but not in vain.
Nine hours they fought, all told.
But the Fourth and Sixth have carved a name.
For we, who are left, to uphold.
They were only a few−but a few of the best.
They were young and eager and gay.
And Canada’s proud, in spite of the costs,
Of her sons who made history that day.
Poets Thoughts
I
will have to speak for my father Sgt. Ronald Stewart Hunter since he
passed away in the spring of 1991. He was a first generation Canadian,
born and raised in Kent, England. My father always had an entertaining
story to share about his experiences during WWII. Being in the Dental
Corp., his war was a lot different compared to those who faced the
enemy
upon the battle field.
Sgt.
Hunters heart ached with the death of each and every soldier who
fought
for the common cause. He was a sensitive man, a trait he would
carry
with him to the grave. Once the war was over, a period of time he
would
remember as the best years of his life, he would contemplate all
that he
had learned, what he had seen, what he had hated and also loved.
This
poem is the end result of those contemplations.
Dieppe
was written in 1942 by my dad, with help from Sgt. A. Morritt,
exactly
14 years before my birth. My father’s pride was obvious when his
words
were published in the Canadian Military's newsletter "The Carrier"
(Volume 1 #3 - Overseas Edition - August 19, 1942). My pride also glows
being able to share a little piece of my dad with you.
THE TREMBLING CUP
by
Arthur Holderbaum-Bachman
His blood…
running breathless, scared and ragged
His blood …I hear calling sharp and jagged
Upraised head and tears streaming, into the arms of
Love I fly
Warm and cool, I tremble, arms up and reaching into
sky
She is beautiful, long lustrous hair lays all about
and
She cries and cries, more drama I hear and CAN stand
She needs someone to hear and listen, but who hears me
I look about and there is nothing, no one I can see
I hear her drama and I want so much to help
It's not beyond me I know, problems are but a whelp
His blood cries out to her and God Himself hears
The blood of your half-brother, HE says, has reached
my ears.
Jerusalem, sweet Jerusalem, Apple of God's eye
The blood of your half-brother reaches unto the sky
The Promised Land is not Ishmael’s birthright
Ishmael must submit to God and not fight
God sees treasure nestled in the hills-- You and me
Your half-brother-- Abraham‘s son, God asks, Where can
Ishmael be
House of my choosing,
Tribes Twelve, your half-brother Ishmael's blood calls out to me
Naked you came in and naked you go out, maintain your
birthright in peace-- let it be
A Father's Day Poem
Author Unknown
If roses grow in heaven Lord, then pick a bunch for me.
Place them in my dad's arms, and tell him they're from me.
Tell him I love and miss him, and when he turns to smile,
place a kiss upon his cheek and hold him for awhile
...for me
Poets thoughts... A relative of mine (Heather Warlow) posted this poem on Facebook. She wrote me saying,
"This
poem is very near and dear to my heart. Thanks Richard." Heather, you
are so very welcome. This poem is
dedicated to all of the people out
there who miss their dad's. Please share this poem with everyone you
know.
Reflections
by R.S. Hunter
Oh mirror
mirror on the wall,
Standing
there so quiet, standing so tall.
My
question is a simple one, from me to you,
The
answer that you offer me, ugly and true.
Oh mirror
mirror upon that wall
I ‘d prefer
that you lie when answering my call.
Please be
ever so gentle when describing my face,
The truth that you offer me becomes my disgrace.
Oh mirror
mirror you and your wall,
Your duty
so simple, your reflections do maul.
The face
I am witness to when I gaze deep within.
Not the
young man I once knew, now aged wrinkled grin.
Oh mirror
mirror fall free from your wall,
Smash
into slivers, shattering your all.
Your
demise is my salvation, no longer will I fear,
For I
know my inner being - young, sweet and clear.
Poets
thoughts... I know it's silly, but I really don't like looking in
mirrors - never did. This poem came
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