When Hope Ends
By Patricia Harris
The beginning of all things
Is when we decide that hope ends.
Because Hope is the thing
That keeps alive the what ifs.
Realism means that you look
at what life offers
and don’t look away
when hope ends and the world
shows you the darkness
in sway.
The end is nigh
Or so they say,
Not a chance
That it is just a
Matter of perspective.
What you consider
To be the end,
Might be a bit
Of a beginning
For the next person.
Hope Splashes
By Patricia Harris
Heaven has nothing
On the exquisite
Pleasures found here
Earthbound.
So much of what
People stress over
Lingers in the mind
After it should be
Sent on its way.
Hope helps us
Enjoy the
Simplicity of life.
When the wind calls you home,
I hope you become poetry.
When you have nothing left to say,
I hope you write poetry.
When all in you has been turned
Into the noise of the world,
I hope you find poetry to quiet it again.
And child,
When you have naught else
That you can depend upon,
I hope you have poetry.
Pick up the pen,
Bleed the verse.
Try to find the best
Words again.
Perhaps repeat
The actions to find
The answer life has to give,
But each poem is different.
What is poetry for?
Poetry is to heal the broken,
Poetry is to reach the disturbed…
Poetry is to give wings
To those who are falling
Into the pits of despair.
What else is poetry for?
Poetry is to comfort those
Who are desperate
In need of a dream
In written form.
Poetry is to let
Those who have
Suffered know that
They are not alone
In this world.
Deja Vu
By Patricia Harris
It’s funny that I feel
Like I have been here before
Standing here watching
My life walking out the door.
It’s funny that I feel
Like I said that before,
Goodbye I love you more
Than you can even know…
Is my life stuck on repeat?
An unintentional loop,
Where I stand at the edge
Wondering
If I have anything left to lose?
So much of poetry
Is a subjective thing…
Words, emotions,
Metaphors, and swing…
Sometimes catharsis comes
Just from the attempt
To find poetry in the way
Words come out on paper.
Memory
By Patricia Harris
It is such a funny thing
That which memory brings,
Sometimes it is just a
Sound, a smell, or a word
That triggers the return…
Other times it is a waterfall
Of sensation washing
Over the overstimulated brain.
How many ways
Can I write about
Poetry?
Holding my heart
Out on my sleeve,
My pen has more
Poetry to bleed.
Pattimouse 