Time to Sow
By: Ruth Pettite
Copyright 2011 by Ruth Pettite
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Dedicated to the lovers
And the fighters
Who keep their lives strong
Prayer of Secrecy
Cold windfire,
Coax me with your legacy.
Against all odds.
My relativity tired.
Gentle coals, do me the favour.
Around the double hypocracy;
Making me pretend my best.
Exhausted in luxury.
Cherished in the arms
Of your quenching fingers.
What We Go Through
An inclement,
Grey, unmerciful, and oppresive.
Sepereated, yet indifferent.
They are cruel,
And unsparing.
Until they say "yes,"
We reamin burdensome.
Exhausting arduous groups;
Fighting for our rights.
Hard, inflexible statues
Labourious to stop us.
Severe despair floats,
Our minds walk in.
Say "yes" man!
Trouble yourself no more!
We shall remain as we are,
And foolish you will stay.
To My Father
You were proud,
But I disappointed you.
You kept that pride
When I walked the stage.
I love you, Daddy.
You were happy,
But I angered you.
You kept that happiness
When I rode the lifeline.
You were suave,
But I pushed you.
You kept that smoothness
When I broke my stride.
My father, my mentor,
How I've learned so much.
You taught, and thought
I did not listen.
So many lessons
Still linger today.
Hospitality, patience,
True understanding.
And so many
Still to learn.
My father, my daddy,
What would this world
Have been without you?
You were brave,
And I thought I had lost you,
So many years ago.
But you were never gone,
Just busy making this world
A better place for us.
So I ask you this:
Is it possible
That I could back?
Just one time,
For you to be my Daddy,
And for me to be
Your little girl?
Just to Write
I'm not writing this for contest,
Or to win a thing at all.
I'm just writing for my pleasure
And the reading rights that call.
I'm not writing this for you,
Or for anyone else that cares,
I'm just writing because I want to,
And because I like to share.
My thoughts go down on paper,
It's how i discuss my dreams;
I am a poet, therefore I write;
My aspirations will be redeemed.
I love using words,
They inspire and deform,
And take imagination to heights
Unforeseen by the norm.
So please, critique if you will.
Remember, these are thoughts
From a disturbed mind
Plagued and out of wrought.
And nothing, not your inquiries,
Not your replies,
Changes the common thought
Or dreams from my eyes.
Fantasy of a Maiden
She sits by her fireside,
This sweet maiden of mine.
And I watch her
From shadows anon.
This sweetheart of mine,
Purer than ice;
She knows not that
I spy on her today.
She is dressed,
Long skirt, and high boots.
With the complimentary neckline,
Making me drool.
Just her presence;
More than adequate
For my peace of mind.
I follow her daily,
But not on intention;
They made it this way.
(Stalking's out of the question.)
She cannot see me,
Though I stand
Right by her side.
But I can see her.
And I can smell her.
Maybe she cannot see me
Because of my hair.
Or perhaps my books.
(They tend to hide me.)
Or maybe it is my shoes.
I think,
Yes! That's it!
I think it is
My dress.
Reality
Disgruntled, but reassured;
Her lady walks
By moonlit shadows.
Essence of lavender
And mildew mix
The foggy ravine.
Ragweed and crabgrass
Filter her ties,
As if rooting her
To their unseen caverns.
Shattered water,
Seared by fog;
Rippling in time
To toads and crickets alike.
Mirrored in the stream,
She sees not her own face.
But a replica of inner being.
Horrid, and yet,
Demure.
Cursed for all time,
To search for true fate.
The crone, the matron, the maid.
All three blended
In her eyes.
When morning breaks,
Everyone sees her,
But not her.
She sees the terror
Within her own soul.
She feels the anguish
That noone can imagine,
Let alone face.
Her hand embraces
The reflection,
In hopes to cast away
The ungodly sight.
She weeps,
In nightingale's song,
And stumbles upon
Tremored thoughts.