A Storm Brewing Take a step out the door, Take a deep breath of air. Feel the cold, swirling breeze Sweeping through your thick hair. Take a look at the sky, As the stormy grey grows And the drops of dark ice Dash your cheeks and your nose. Feel the night’s magic spell Fill your soul to the brim, Clear your head, make your heart Dance with weather so grim. Take a moment for wind To whisk worries from sight And wish for the storm To last all through the night.
Freezing Mists and fog, the cloudy sky, The cold north winds that lift her soul. Her arms float up, as if she’d fly, As if this weather makes her whole. A smile tucks into her face, A spark of joy lights in her eye. She feels this is a perfect place, The sweeping wind echoes her sigh. Freedom, magic, sweet relief, Her posture straightened, chin raised high. And though she knows the moment’s brief, The chill frees her from the goodbye
Tower of Terror Stormclouds gather, quicken pace, Wind begins to strike your face, Skin is chilled by freezing rains, Feel it racing through your veins. Step into the stormy night, Soak and shiver, eyes are bright, Your heart pounds as you climb higher On the stairs to castle’s spire. Reach the top and lightning flashes, Laughing as the thunder crashes, Glorious and full of power, Atop your wind-whipped, storm-tossed tower. Then tempest breaks - the castle’s crumbling, Falling, screaming, sobbing, tumbling, Then caught by tranquil, cooling breeze, You gently land, fall to your knees. The soft wind wipes away your tears, And sweeps away your burning fears, You fall asleep, your power fades Until the next night’s escapades.
Moments on the Mountain Anticipation climbs within as we hike up the slope; Our saucers drag behind us, flimsier than one might hope. The cloudy grey above us rumbles with its endless power; Dark pines mark out the area from which others might cower. But we children, born of blizzard, born of wind, and born of ice, Wrapped in our coats of armor, we don’t even think twice. We march up to the top, brimming with a joyous glee; Preparing for the action, as excited as can be. In position, we look down at the snowy white expanse; Snowflakes stinging on our cheeks, we share a merry glance. Then we give ourselves a push, just a hint of trepidation; And our speed picks up until we’re fit to burst with the elation. Down the mount, we swoop and curve, laughing, screaming with delight, And our worries whisk away, and suddenly, the world feels right.
Dead Poets The poets and the dreamers are the ones who go insane; They die with not a nickel, not a penny to their name. Their work is done in secret, in the madness of the mind Where, deep beneath the echoes and the cobwebs, you will find A raging war of words, emotions, moments, visions, thoughts, A roiling mass of fury, love, destruction, twisted knots. They waver on the edge between sweet lea and stormy death, Scribbling wildly before they take a final breath. They step so close to ruin from curiosity and hope And the feeling that they must because others could not cope. At times, someone breaks, and into the abyss they fall; Burdened by the weight, they sought a way to end it all. But no one should give up because the battle never ends; It wages on inside us, closer than we think to friends, Closer than we think to family, to the ones that we love most, So we must not lose our grip or we’ll become a haunted ghost. The pen is mightier than any sword or steely blade For the pen’s what proves one’s courage, despite being afraid.
Bookwyrm Imagine a child, ecstatic to find That fantasy stories enrapture her mind. The words of the authors with faces unknown Turn thoughts into pages constructing a throne. As she lies awake, wide eyes open in bed, She builds cardboard castles inside of her head, And grows up surrounded with creative folks: Her father, her mother, her sisters in cloaks, Like witches and wizards and hobbits and elves Who share all the beloved books on the shelves And write their own stories from brimming ideas, Concocting new magic from hopes, dreams, and fears. This girl picks up pencil and paper one night, And realizes that she, as well, loves to write. Twisting knots of her thoughts to adventurous plots, Exploring the worlds, filling in empty spots With poetry, screenwriting, novels, and plays, A scribbled-down character, premise, or phrase: They dance in the stardust of nightly daydreams, And sail down the thousands of consciousness streams. She sketches and scribbles till eyes start to cross, Then stares at the sky, scattered to the words lost; From all the emotion that wells up inside, She morphs from a human to one scaly ride. She takes flights of fancy on her dragon wings And soars through the clouds as the silver light sings. When the morning sun rises and burns through deep sleep, She wakes and remakes the old stones of her keep. She throws out, she edits, she reworks, she shifts, Assembles the sentences, mends all the rifts Once times are spent pondering, once papers are torn She ends with a piece that’s been harshly reborn She’s dragon and poet, her heart does affirm The tale of her life would be titled Bookwyrm.