Poems

I like to write poems when I have something bothering me,

I find it to be much more soothing than talking,

Here are some of my bits...

Little Sister

I have one question on my mind
that has lingered there for years.
The answer is one that I'll never find
and thats the reason for my tears.
Why did He take you Marguerite?
Why couldn't You have stayed?
I hear your laughter- it sounds so sweet-
however I am afraid.
I'm afraid someday I'll forget your smile
or that your memory will disappear.
I know that that would take a while
but I will always live in fear.
I'll always love you little sister
I hope you know just how much I've missed you.

I write not as a poet

I write not as a poet but as a sister lost in grief. I write not because I owe it but because it offers me relief. It's said that death is painless, Perhaps to the one who died. To me the pain is endless, I am the one who has cried. For hours on end I feel my loss I cannot hide the hurt. It's said that everyone has a cross to bear while here on earth. Hopefully when I die some day God will come take my pain away.

Meeting Freddie "Tins of beans now 29 cent. Store brand toilet paper buy one get one free..." The monotonous tone emanating from the PA system lulls my senses into a Utopia of freshly baked bread, cinnamon and fried chicken. The sound of middle-aged housewives' clunky heels running on the cold cream tiles ricochet across the store."It's him I tell you. Look! He's holding the marrowfat peas!" I am expelled from my Utopia and compelled to follow the herd of chattering women. Their excitement is intoxicating. I find myself leaping into the air to try and steal a glimpse of my mushy-pea stranger. I see him! It's Freddie Mercury! All rationality leaves my normally sensible mind. I scream and faint. "Are you alright? You took a nasty fall out there!" His honey-toned voice awakes me from my slumber. Remembering my actions I flush a ridiculous shade of red. I open my eyes and mumble a pathetic response and smile. Leaning over he kisses me on the forehead and tells me to take care. I watch his figure transform into a silhouette as he walks into my imaginary sunset. Touching my forehead I rise and return to my world of rationality and fried chicken. The  Priestess A pure salubrious  priestess awaiting Beltaine for her seed, A goddess to his stag. Sunset, their Beltaine fire his sceptre, her chalice. A licentious lust. A union never to be remembered Their love never to be forgotten. A Greek tragedy to a Celtic air. Like Jocasta to her Oedipus, Morgaine is to her Arthur. A love once pure is now twisted into a web of deceit and pain. All because the hunter fell in love with his Morgaine.