Magic wand,
Making still waters,
Come alive under the sun,
Graceful miracle, white purity,
That glides into serenity,
Romantic past, long gone,
And yet, like love,
Your beauty never ending,
Your secret never won.
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Dreams are made of fog and clouds,
Poems too are but a dream,That you can’t refrain.Poems, dreams and lifeless themes,Where are we to turn?If life is but a cloudy dreamWhere, our candle, Burn?
Passionately, I read you,
By your poetic power,By the nectar distilled,From the champagne,Of your purple Rose,Imagination.You have been blessed,By the gods of Poetry,You can open Skies,And plant divine vines,In the Universe of Words,Never before done like this,So beautifully,With such Sentiment!And Imagery,Reaching straight,Into the heart,Of all of Humanity.
Red munching mouths,
As Movie Viewers’Waistlines, Pop!
There is Nothing
To fill your day,Not all may agreeBut for me,It is just that way,And the happinessThat brings,Is enlightening,Making me look at life,In an entirely different way!Humbled by this happinessI write,Hoping also to please,Someone, SomewhereSomeday.
Very few poems are happy,
Very few poets are happy,That’s why on poems they feast.
What inspires you, dear Poet,
Is it Mystery that does it,Or the wish for divine flight?