Poetic Curse

©2010 B. Clary I often think in poetry. It is a curse my own disease. To look upon a tree in awe, Its gnarled roots in winters thaw. The rolling hills, flowers in sync, Petals so soft like lips of pink. A splash of blue upon the sky, As feathered clouds lazily float by. The

Written Word

Words seem to scurry from crowded corners of my mind. From there, to pen, to paper, tearing their way outside. Scribbling themselves in harmony, across an empty page. Showing no discrimination, no matter creed, gender, or age. Telling tales of wars long past, present tales of love denied. Emanating with emotions, all humanity is assigned.