I Want to Belong to the Winds

When I no longer lie on this Earth

And must welcome death into my heart

I shall be taken to a hilltop,

My ashes spread into the four winds

I shall travel North,

North, to the Northiest part of the world

I will travel East

And West

Around the Earth and back again.

I shall travel South,

South beyond the Southern borders I was limited,

Beyond the fear of leaving I had in life.

I will travel as far as the winds can take me

Around and around,

The world my carousel

One man on a journey to find everything.

Careening, dipping, landing where the winds halt

Resuming when they have finished their business

One soul reminiscing on a life that never was

When my journey is over,

The four winds will return me to that hilltop

When that day comes,

I hope you will join me.

We can sit on that graveyard as long as you like.

Even forever.

The Stockholm Summer

Arms wrapped around me – captured my life.
My heart screamed, screeching through my soul.
We jingled off into the distance,
Clinking with every step.

Our room silent, dimly lit
A parade of torrents, our only music.
My life centered around
Our time together.

We danced with fire all around
As passion blazed, engulfing us.
A mere candle could not compare
To the torch of our encampment.

We succumbed, pressured by jungle forces,
Nothing but beasts prowled with us.
Armed with desire,
We braved our battle.

Our lives intermingled,
We counted our days, numbered until the end.
Forcer apart, bittersweet relief flaked
Across our time, our moments, our parting.

You, Only You

You stood

Creation before you.

You said,

"Let there be"

And there was.

You formed, and shaped.

You planned, and created.

You, only You, could do this.

I stand.

A lifetime before me.

I say,

"Let me be"

And I am.

I think, and grow.

I care, and imagine.

You, only You, can help me.

We bring

Worship before you.

We cry,

"Holy, holy, holy"

And you are.

We pray, and sing.

We teach, and learn.

You, only You, are worthy.

The Cold Within

I didn't write this - but, it's one of my favorite poems... One of the reasons I write poetry... It is such a great story and imagery... This poem is generally published as written by Anonymous (who writes a lot of stuff)... Anyway... Here's the poem...

The Cold Within

Six humans trapped in happenstance

In the dark and bitter cold

Each one possessed a stick of wood

Or so the story's told

Their dying fire in need of logs

The first woman held hers back

For of the faces around the fire

She noticed one was black

The second man, looking across the way

Saw not one of his church

And he just couldn't bring himself

To give the fire his stick of birch

The third man sat in tattered clothes

He gave his coat a hitch

Why should his log be put to use

To warm the idol rich

The rich man just sat back and thought

Of the wealth he had in store

And how to keep what he had earned

From the lazy, shiftless poor

The black man's face bespoke revenge

As the fire died out of sight

For all he saw in his stick of wood

Was a chance to spite the white

The last man in this forlorn group

Did naught except for gain

Giving only to those who gave

Was how he played the game

Six logs gripped tight by death's still hands

Was proof of human sin

They didn't die from the cold without

They died from the cold within

I Wrote A Letter

I wrote a letter.

This letter contains everything,
Everything you ever wanted,
Everything you ever dreamed of,
Everything you fantasized about.

This letter cures you of whatever,
Whatever is ailing you,
Whatever is troubling you,
Whatever is frightening you.

This letter offers guidance,
Guidance for your life,
Guidance for your future,
Guidance for everyday.

This letter gives you strength,
Strength to move on,
Strength to continue,
Strength to accept.

This letter exudes confidence,
Confidence in your choices,
Confidence in your ability,
Confidence in yourself.

This letter is meant for you,
For those of you who need help,
For those of you who need guidance,
For those of you who need confidence.

This letter is written is response,
To all of your troubles,
To all of your pain,
To all of your struggling.

This letter is special,
Special because it’s just for you.

I tore this letter up,
I burned it,
I threw into a restless wind.

This letter will be around you,
In the wind, in the air,
In the simple act of waking up,
In the mundane tasks of everyday.

This letter will be with you,
Thriving as your guide to life.

I wrote a letter.
Please, find it and read it.
Then, pass it on.

What Do You Do

What do you do

When heartbreak is certain?

What do you do

When the news you have is a burden?

What do you do

When you are what you can't be?

What do you do

How can you make them see?

What do you do

When the life you want isn't 'well'?

What do you do

When the life you have is hell?

What do you do

When the burden you have is too strong?

What do you do

How can you show this isn't wrong?

What do you do

At night when you toss and you turn?

What do you do

To teach, while trying to learn?

What do you do

To always, "To yourself be true?"

When all you else seem to fail

What do you do?

... And 9 Others

I recently saw a headline that said a celebrity had died "and 9 others." That is what prompted this poem.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Who are these 'others'?

What did they do?

When did they become less important?

Where did they come from?

Why are they left being 'others'?

What could the have accomplished?

A lifetime ahead, that they can't live.

No one deserves this,

But even fewer deserve to be

Labeled 'others'

A grandmother who loved her family.

Going to the store to shop.

A big dinner planned for her soldier.

A reunion never realized.

A lady devout in faith.

All she wanted was supplies.

Making crafts for the local bazaar.

New, priceless items

Never to be created.

A man who had no one left.

The end of a family.

A double tragedy only survived by

One single word - 'others'

A father waiting to hear.

His ears open, his mind outstretched.

He'll never know what was said.

But, his family will never forget him.

Then, of course, the precious child.

Smart, wise beyond her years.

She wanted to learn.

All she was educated in

Was how evil this world can be.

These people are not 'others.'

These people have their own fame.

They had lives, wives, mothers, daughters.

Now, all they are is on immortal word

'Others'

The greatest tragedy of all.

Is not the one celebrity.

It's the 'others'