Supple Pet
als

Like supple petals her hands do move,

across the sky they do cry

her gentle turns do soothe, your sharp and watchful eye.

Like silken sheets she floats,

taking your soul to join her journey,

her golden dress does coat

your ever thirsty yearning.

Let her take you away,

to place of heightened emotion,

where no worries may stay,

and movements are a soothing lotion.

Go on, you have my permission.

Sorry, only she gets a commission.

We arrived and saw the guns flashing and heard the rifles fire. The earth booms suddenly and we crouch into corners. Slowly we become mute with despair. Shocked, our bodies are stretched painfully over repressed madness. The gradual day weakening the will and leaking the brightness away. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks we wander about on the dead ground. Dim through the misty panes and thick green light as a green sea we find it. So full of dead men we can hardly move. For a while there is nothing but the living being sick on the dead. After continual straining we push them into the sides of the trench but bits of them keep getting uncovered and sticking out. Hands are the worst; they escape from sand pointing, begging even waving! That night duty bade me fight, making the years to come seem a waste of breath. For in balance with this life is death. I know I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds; the fading of my body and soul like smoke before wind.

(found poem from WW 2 sources)

I stare at lush lips of lavender that pout at the lushly lavish lashes that take in the view of jello soft lips with firm smooth loveliness that overpowers the lighted senses of others, the lips that lay words of love onto louts with ears lets all know who's in charge. With drops of lily fragrance leafing down on a lettered shirt of loose fitting material that lists from side to side with little summer wind that lofts through the lantern filled air of the late night street, which I lope down in levitated heels, all while pouting my lips of lavender at lushly lavish lashes.

Beyond where the last stars bright light shines, beyond the moon's pale glimmer and beyond the essence of time. There sleeps each world's keeper. Deep in slumber do they dream of how their worlds could be. Worlds with individual personality, yet with perfect harmony. Of earth's huge oceans, clear lakes, and the singing waterfalls. Of Mar's great landscapes, and majestic red mountains, and of the love that emanates from the people on the world of Venus. The keepers watch over them, keeping the worlds separate yet together. Keeping the sun's hot glow steady, strong, and keeping the stars pale glow twinkling, and seducing the moons to circle. The moon's otherworldly essence is the keeper's eyes watching the planets, like the earth hawks keeping watch over their young. They guide and protect the delicate universe while in their deep slumber. Never to be woken, or even broken. Beyond time they do entice protection to their side.

My Purple Pen
purposefully
poises above the
page.

Sparkling down
drops of ink,
creating sunset
shades of
purple upon the
silken clouds of
snow white paper.

Down it shoots
to delve
into decaying thoughts
with fast, feathery, floating
upon lamb wool
pages.

Like a razor it
slices
across creating
patterns of thought.

My purple pen carries
me away
on the boat
made of
horsehair threads
to the land
of thought filling
fairies.

Jacqueline Sandberg