Love the red, like blood
The wine,
Not the favorite of thinkers.
Yet, no matter where you be
Climate and changes permitting
Wine, red blood, of Ancient drinkers
Forms part of our History.
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If we all were sincere poets,
What a World of peace and comfort,We could then, together be.
They call Them eccentric,
Poets are strange ones,Always trying to find,The Light in Illusions,That live only in their mind.
Music Speaks
But conveysThe sweetest,SpirituallyEnchanting,MessagesEver heard!
Only loving someone
More than ourselvesMore than anythingElse, in our livesCan bring,Contentment, happinessRedemption and peace.
Windmill masters, wooden shoes,
Not feel the blues?Nothing is ever good enough,Possessions, money, any crutch,In loving Nature find repairWe don’t do, loveliness so fairSooth disappointments that we bear,A budding rose, neath bluer skyThe ocean wide, beauty to try,And then there’s, LoveThat if it’s found,Becomes the whole worldTurned around,For when there’s Romance in the air,We know that happiness is there,And…
Presenting things,
Sometimes a mental mockery,Sometimes a mental tragedy,Transforming harsh reality,Emotions, feelings speed ahead,With abstract paintings in your head.A dance expressive does begin,Where hidden passions feel like Sin,Acceleration, tension mounts,Then only Writing is What counts.That’s how the Poet’s World explodes!In sudden spurts, emotion grows,And when the Festive Lights beginYou don’t know if you’ll lose or win.