savvy

There is warmth in the wind As I clasp at streams Of sunlight. There are faceless flowers - Waking-- Bees-- Awkwardly roaming. Breathless clouds Whispering- Comforting echoes Of crying rain. We are boundless In search Of a blushing spring day.

Twirling is the emotion of mind, Never certain on heaven or hell, Twining with despise of what is: Right, Wrong, Horrid. How Fragile is the human soul, As a lover's warm breath softly caresses the maiden's cheek, Softly blowing into her natural lust, While her soul is stamped with heavy burden, The knowledge of a husband awaiting her return. Pity and horror twist and twine as self-satisfaction takes a role, Deep in the dooms of a sinners soul, Must one ask how diamonds falling from the sky, snow, can be so beautiful yet so bitter Cold, Heartless, And horrid as the storm blazes. Anticipation of what is to come next, The undeni

I can hear your singing Sweet crescent lune, Here the bells are ringing Banging to your tune. And all that lives will die to hear Your Melody - attributed to the dead, To all the loved ones you held dear Your passions have not yet been fed. When singing rain falls from the sky Calling hither will you fade, Sweet Melody of mine - there you fly. On the ground wishes you have laid. Memories come And Memories go, Where hate twists from I do not know. With a blade it splits your heart Revealing veins of darkness, The strings of a harp. Here lies no kindness But the pumping death of greed, Seeking all compassion But no warning

     Mary's sandy brown hair frolicked softly against her cheek; coiling in the night breeze. The chill of the wind didn't matter much; she had been colder before. She was in no situation to complain.     "Mommy!" A small girl, cradling her mother's hand, pointed towards the lone figure on the stoop.     "Hush dear, don't stare." Mary had learned to cope with the stares of strangers by now. At times she could push back a gaze with her own piercing look. She could also twist a stare into a smile, if they were kind hearted enough. Mary was also used to people avoiding her in general, deliberately averting their eyes as they passed. She wasn

Mr. Sweeney and his wife emigrated from North Ireland in the hopes of starting a new life. Settling into a small country cottage home proved to be the easy part. It was the upholding that proved a hard task to Mr. Sweeney, who was trying to balance both his drinking habit and the family necessities on minimum wage. The day of Mary Sweeney’s third birthday was both bright and vivid. Reflected in her eyes, the sky shone a pale blue while the pastel clouds blushed a soft pink. It is what Mary’s mother would call a ‘Boy and Girl’s sky’. The golden glaze of the sun tinted the tops of the small hills rolling their way towa

No words... Silence? No... not that silent The beat of a bleeding heart is too loud And the whispers of regret so soft, Yet the wishful call is loudest, And the answer so shortly unheard. Acceptance? Another form of illusion? Honesty? Another white lie. Truth? Demanded, but never given. You push Softly I fall Slowly.

As I listen to screams so sharp they’re silent, I walk along with words of wise, If only silence didn’t drown the screams, And betray the words of wiser. I seem to be torn apart, With nightmares and with dreams, Upon my beaten soul, Folly sorrowfully gleams. All I seek is to hold you, To burry my head between your arms, To silence the screams of silent, It’s they that haunt my dreams. But from weaker plagues I flee, Causing a mourning on my being, All the arms I turn to... Seem to weak to hold me dearly. Are you just going to stand there, And watch me fade away? As I finally reach you, I awake another day. To

In the net of time There on waits, For worth to slip Into their fate. In cupped hands A world she holds, Strings of galaxies Stories to be told. No Life at all Seems to caress her lips, Not the slightest quiver Comes from her hip. Tittering on the edge of hope, Despair. Balanced on the edge of insanity. The flesh is swollen From emotionless solitude, The eyes might as well be white For blind the holder makes them, Setting sight on the endless eternity in their grasp. Knowledge is a concept Far from grip. Everything seems to be the same As yesterday’s yesterday. Time seems to keep on going While it should in her m

Rushed through the hall, I didn’t understand, These bitter smells of bleached sheets, Sickness, And Medication. Shook and shaken by one word, I set out on my way to you. Through closed eyes I can remember those younger days we used to play. Your crinkled, worn hands caressed mine many times as we reached for sugar while playing with teacups. Although your house was small it was cozy all the same, with pale white walls bordered with fruit. Often I remember wondering how it might taste. Like paper? Or could they possibly taste like real like in our once favourite movie “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”. But as I walk

     The salty burst made her smile as she licked the folds of her lips. It was a hot day out, not a humid heat, but a dry one. Sweat trickled down her brow and over her cheeks, every few seconds her eyelashes flicked droplets away from her crystal blue eyes. She lifted a hand to tilt her wicker hat downwards, protecting her golden hair from coming branches. Esedel moved swiftly beneath her, a gentle sway moved through the rider’s right side with every hoof that was lifted from the forest floor. The forest was alive today on the Playa Conchal shore of Costa Rica. She had no real goal this day, other then to ride along the b