The Haunting

ghostly iciclesSomething wicked this way comes,

Marching in to Arctic drums;

Promised gift of spring succumbs

To ghosts of winter past.

Ice Queen reigns supreme for now,

Frigid frost on frigid brow;

Soon, she’ll have to take a bow,

For phantoms cannot last.

 

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The Icicle Project

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If I were

an icicle

I would melt

into your love

letting go

of the past

like tears

rolling down

cheeks

of glass

Sunshine’s Serenade

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Tympani tap out your beat,

pitter-patter at my feet,

notes that songbirds’ trills repeat,

raindrops unafraid.

Drips and drops in double time,

church-bells’ cheerful childhood chime,

sweet percussion, Springtime rhyme,

Sunshine’s Serenade.

Tears Are Gems

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Her tears roll swift –

hot harbingers of head-aches to come,

they puddle-ize her.

She fears that if they keep falling,

there will be nothing left to call her own,

no stamp on her collar to remind her

whose she is

or where she came from

or what she should call herself

at a party.

But tears are

gems;

to a seasoned Collector,

they are mermaid-magical,

gathered lovingly in a bottle

and counted.

When store is sufficient,

they will be returned,

Narnian Elixir,

potion powerful enough

to reconstitute the Walking Dead.

So cry, precious heart –

tears are

gems.