Samhain
By
Patricia Harris
Rolling pumpkins
glowing eyes,
decaying leaves,
admist costumery…
candy sacks in tiny hands
haunting the streets
until the nights end.
The veil is thinned
on this night of revelry,
It brings the ancestors
to weave the joy into
all that might be .
He is not My friend
By
Patricia Harris
He said he was my buddy,
My brother, my bestie,
Anything to get me closer.
He wanted me to want more,
Wanted me hooked on
What he had in store.
He is not my friend,
He is the chills in the
Middle of the night,
He is not my friend,
He is the last minute
Need to fight.
He is not my friend,
He is my dealer.
My Faults
By Patricia Harris
In my head
my faults are mountain sized,
built from the moments I have
so often tried…
and seen the inability
to make it work…
so the blame was in me?
because where else could it be?
instead of seeing the struggle
I have endured and the learning curve
that me was set before,
I assumed that I was flawed.
Overcome the world laid at my feet,
every issue did I defeat, just not in perfect grace,
so I listed my own flaws in litany
because I saw the struggle as my disgrace.
Bone Tired
By Patricia Harris
When does sleep
Finally catch up
With the tired
A lifetime long?
It’s not that I am complaining,
For life is full, and I am aware,
But more than three hours
Would help feel like
I have been mauled by a bear.
The End
By Patricia Harris
Is once the word is spoken
at the end of it’s life,
nothing further for it to know?
or is the verse just beginning
and the speech the start
of all it will know?
Either way I feel like
the word spoken in verse
will catch something more than
interest and ignite a new thirst.
Splash the ink
so carelessly,
give poetry freely.
for the world deserves
the best of verse,
with no thoughts
to the what ifs and such.
poetry is another art
meant to ease the disturbed,
and so I say it should be
written with abandon
to make the world better.
Soul
By Patricia Harris
Perhaps I am mistaken
In belief that a soul is not meant
to be trampled upon.
I think that too many are thinking
of the wrong spelling of the word.
The sole of our feet are for
walking upon, Nothing within
the soul of a man
is meant to be trod upon.
*sorry I am running late.
Heart of Hope
By Patricia Harris
Stretching to the edge of insanity,
When the pressure gets to be too much,
That is where you find it…
The strength that is the heart of hope.
Courage is not being brave
Because you don’t feel fear,
It is feeling it and doing anyway.
The heart of hope is knowing
Despair and choosing
To believe in the possibility
Of what time will bring.
Why are all the poets tortured,
The artists starved,
And that somehow makes
The world go around?
Poetry seems to heal
The tortured souls,
And so I am inclined
to think that those who
Need it most create.
Wasteland of the heart
By Patricia Harris
Perhaps dystopian tales
Have it all wrong,
The apocalypse will not be
Some huge global catastrophe…
Instead I think that
It is going to be
A slow decay of the social
Heart and mind.
That has already begun
With man no longer caring for
The fellow man…
The wasteland of the heart
Has already started to form
With the world not decaying
Just falling apart silently
From within.
Pattimouse 