dreamers

heavy is my heart filled with tears

for the world is being run by
angry deposed souls that believe...
to destroy all that they cannot possess
will leave them with what they wish

they know not that the possessions

they will attain will tether them to
a world without riches   

we who live in a dreamer’s world

one of hope and empathy, one that
embraces rather than pushes away,
an open hand in lieu of a taught fist

whose eyes are open to see the vision

of night stars, tries to reach up and touch them
who lies down on a field of wild flowers
and roles around in them with delight

if another hurts he tries to support, lends

a hand where he can and shares his bread
even when he has little and both will take
pleasure in the little which then becomes
insatiably fulfilling

just maybe, those with the folded fist

the angry heart will release their grip
and observe that sharing yields joy
and they may choose to join

but I live in a dreamer’s world

and so I wish not to awaken

 

reflection of beauty

she stood there looking at herself

the reflection of Michelangelo curves soft silken skin
both arms hang naturally, fingers in tact,
two shapely legs that would entice

she walks closer to the mirror and observes her long
sinuous now gray white hair still full and rich
eye lashes long, flutter seductively
translucent azure eyes look deep into her heart

a smile evinces with lips that make still air

swirl and turn into hurricane winds
then tilts her head to see that pretty lady
across in the reflection doing the same

her fingers flick the light on and off   

her silhouette moves about surreal
she leaves the light off, opens the blind
the suns fingers titillate the contour
of her body casting her shadow against the wall

she recalls of lovers that came before

telling her she wasn’t pretty enough or too fat
a father demanding her to wear something less tight
cover her curves because she looks like a slut

she’d sit in the corner at night and cry

not liking herself, thinking others felt the same
gave up on school not wanting to be seen
she'd sit in a dark corner and read and read 

she'd picture her life, vicariously, in the
characters of these books of lovers

who loved them and fathers did too

she'd then stand in front of the mirror
wondering who is that beautiful woman in there

she realized when she tilted her head

she was me and I was her

beautiful skin, lovely hair and eyes
with curves that the greatest of artists
would paint and so she left the blinds open