Bed of Roses

Clocks ticking in the dark.
Mind is running- where did it start?
Caught in her haze of red;
it goes over and over through her head.

Dancing back and forth- spinning between extremes;
Facades, unwillingly, sometimes it seems.
She twirls upon the rooftop,
swirling spirits and smiles and swings;
But sits sheepishly across the candlelight,
dodging questions, fingering silver rings.

The road traveled, inherently, is lengthy and quaky.
Through no fault of her own footing,
the turns have rendered her quite shaky.
Her faces, they flash, from golden to blue,
hypnotizing the fray as she dances on through.

It seems a lesson learned long ago;
we make out own beds by not letting go.
We can lie in them, entertain strangers and winks,
and placate ourselves to cloud what we think.
But unless we pull ourselves out, we live only in our head;
So until I awake, I lay in my thorny bed of red.


A Folk Poem

There are folk that see the world
Through a cryptic kaleidoscope;
A folk evolved over bounds of time,
And not swayed by what’s in vogue.

There are folk that joke about the fluff,
And leave you quizzically in mirth;
A folk whose smile skews to port,
Surveying your wits ‘n moral girth.

Folk that typify the limits of might,
That do not waver in the dark;
A folk steadfast despite the odds,
Dead-set on achieving their mark.

There are folk that breathe in the wind,
Gaze beguiled by the harvest moon;
Folk that pay vigil to vibrant setting suns,
Nourished by the soil, budding from their roots.

There are folk that have blazed along the trail,
Amassing insight as they go;
A folk learned, wisdom deep at the core,
That shed light upon our souls.

There are folk that are rare,
They seem fewer every day;
And though it seems the mold has broke,
The energy they share with us passes on the way.