I,
I write of you, of me, but mainly you...

Oh poetry, my old friend
It seems as if...

The witch in black has cast a spell
To bring to Earth the worst of Hell...

In the village of Heydon,
a civil parish of Norfolk, England...

Sooth me lull me
in stillness...

standing near a precipice
too wide, too deep...

as winds whisper secrets to thirsty pines
branches sway excitedly from side to side...

With tears I cry but mainly smile
to those around me for a while...

It’s December. The weather is cold.
Sometimes is hot. We live in Texas...

the tragedy, the love, the tragedy!
This will be found in the following story...

I, a flower in a garden,
is wilting with time...

I never loved you like I love you today
but I did loved you when I first told you I loved...