Contributor Posts

Long ago,
far in our past,
the plains, were
covered with
Seas of grass.
Blowing winds,
helped move the seeds,
choosing land, barren,
well in need of ground cover.
From little seeds,
the grasses awoke,
spreading roots,
to nourish
the land,
"America the Beautiful."

The gloom,
from smog and haze,
hurts my eyes.
End of days.

If plants could speak,
what would we hear?
I need water and food,
and have other plants near.

A reflection
in the windowpane
of clouds darkened,
a forecast of rain.

The last day of February,
which is today,
should close with sunshine,
not these clouds of grey.

Where is the joy,
when it's dark, day and night.
We need more sunshine,
to make the day bright.

Wayward the wind,
knifing through the trees.
It's a very strong wind,
no longer a breeze.

Down at the tree base,
there is whispering sighs,
while treetops shake
the darkest skies.

Raged the wind fiercely,
across the broad plain,
through canyons and chasms
and a downpour of rain.

Tell me, if you can,
directions to a better life.
A place of loving care,
where flowers bloom
and songbirds will sing,
Spring, Summer and Fall.
Flowers growing aside
a garden path, scented
with a sweet perfume.

Soft was the noise,
from within the park.
The Mockingbird,
the Meadowlark.

Beautiful sounds,
so crisp and dear,
musical notes
crystal clear.

So much joy,
so much fuss,
didn't know I was
on the party bus.

An island wedged
among the streams
of rushing water,
sounds of my dream.

From out the crack
of a sidewalk arose,
a beautiful plant,
a pink, pink rose.

Competing, to live again,
from rain and dirt,
the flower grew,
how much the hurt?

To bring forth,
a lovely plant,
to live again.
Don't say can't.

Along the window,
against the pane,
frost is trying
to build again.

Fog covering trees,
and on the ground,
diffusing streetlights,
muffling sound.