In the gardens of Margaret Robberts
In the gardens of Margaret Robberts
white roman pillars runs
in rows down a lane
and there’s a green domed roof
that throws a long shadow.
Between the plants there are fairies hiding
and their homes are forsaken,
camped off with silver wire
and as if she has escaped
one blows on a copper magical flute.
There are red roses
blooming beautifully
and a citrus odour
coming from the lemon trees
and three boys are proud
of the lemons that they are carrying
and I wonder what is going to happen
when they eat some of them.
In the small chapel
I take my hat from my head
and there are beautiful verses
on the walls
and a round stained glass window
with a golden cross
and points pointing
like a white compass
in all directions
that is possible to determine.
We say a silent prayer
and walk to the bell tower
where you hold the chain
for a photograph
and you pay for cool drink,
chicken pie and spinach quiche
and we are exhausted
from the summer heat
and everything becomes peaceful
and I look at you
while you scatter pink rock salt
over your food
l’Envoi
Later we walk to a place
where angels hang on fine strings
and you sit and relax
on a bench with one painted
against the wall
while I try to catch
everything with the camera
and you smile more beautiful
than any angel,
with rays shining out of your golden eyes
and there’s a cute sunhat
on your head
and your locks fall in auburn strings
past you slender shoulders.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
You are beautiful
You are very pretty
and the sun rising over the horizon
loves you,
while his red rays folds open.
The irises of which the colours are purple blue
and kingly on green stems
likes you and flowers perfectly,
to try and copy you.
Wild birds living in the trees
in the street
eat seed that you leave
and they realize that you are wondrously beautiful.
When the postman passes
he looks at the paintings on the outside wall
and thinks that if this is what comes
from your hand,
you really must be lovely.
The small white lapdog
looks admiring at you
as if you are a goddess
and knows were your splendour lies.
l’Envoi
Your auburn hair cherish
your pretty face, which is more beautiful
than a statue chiselled from white marble
and there’s light
in your golden eyes
which witnesses deep beauty.
You are beautiful,
and only you do not realize it.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Granny's Angel
In my grand baby world she
Dream of pink butterflies and
Angel with golden wings playing
And singing sweet lullabies
She dream of sweet sugar plums
And lollipops dancing around her
Head
She dream of fairies, white doves
And pink butterflies
With wings tips of gold
Gold and silver dust sprinkling
Down as they open their wings
She dream of little fairies tickling
Little feet
Her joy shows as her laughter cries
Out
Bouncing around with little fairies
Playing and singing sweet lullabies
Her eyes of blue, as deep as the sky
Looking up at the golden half moon
Hanging so high
Stars of silver and golden threads flickers
Durning the night
Unicorns and fairies playing in a
Field of clovers
With pink ribbons and bows
She dreams of pink butterflies as she lay
In her crib sleeping
Dreaming of sweet nothings
Fairies, butterflies and little
Angels with unicorns in her world
As she sleeps in her little world
Where fantasy is true
Her little sisters and brothers
All angels in heavens
Where her world is all but a beautiful
Dream
As she grow and flourish to be a wife
A mother
And tell her stories to her children in
The future
Dedicated To My Grand Baby Miya
poem by Carolyn Sears
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Three prayers during spring
I. I did not expect this early spring
I did not expect that after this severe winter
that destroyed flowers, grass and plants
that this early
without even rain falling, showering down
spring would come in all this glory
with trees blossoming in bright white and pink colours
plants flowering
unfurling and to be again really living.
I did not expect these blessings,
in life’s early winter
that even though I am constrained,
my career is falling to pieces
and not by my own making
my words, my verses
are coming to their own
and this has brought me
to see that God is truly great
that even the seasons of life
is in His hand.
II. My buds are form Your hand
I thank you Lord that you by grace are blessing me
causing my slender flowers to grow,
that you let my words pour down like rain
hanging flooding over in bell like strings
in internodes, joints of roses
in a pure white colouring which catches the eye
that by love you delegate me as the one
who is worth to blossom in your shade.
I thank you Lord that you by grace are blessing me
not like others of my kind, but hanging
with odourless buds opening
in internodes, joints of roses
in strings upon strings
and although some people want to prune me of blunt,
that you let my words pour down like rain
although people hit in nails
ridicule, hold my words, my verses in parody
with odourless buds opening
my abilities are formed on your grindstone,
although my stems are struggling against a stormy wind.
I thank you Lord that you by grace are blessing me
folding your strong hand over me,
although they are thinking of flowers like roses, irises, geraniums
ridicule, hold my words, my verses in parody
you are sending my verses out to all places
and I thank you that they are flowing from your hand,
that you let my words pour down like rain
that your light shines like diamonds in every drop,
that you are causing my cups to burst open
although they are thinking of flowers like roses, irises, geraniums
which brings forth fragrant odours, but I am
tempered by you to glow with an own beauty.
I thank you Lord that you by grace are blessing me
that you let my words pour down like rain
ingenuous, pure and fresh
flooding over in bell like strings
that you are causing my cups to burst open
in a pure white colouring which catches the eye.
l’Envoi
III. In your shade and care I am blossoming
I thank you Lord
that you by grace are blessing me
causing my slender flowers to grow
flooding over in bell like strings
in internodes, joints of roses
not peach, purple or pink
like others of my kind
but in a pure white colouring
with odourless buds opening
and some ridicule, hold my words,
my verses of rhyme and free form in parody
but my flowering is from your hand
and I can understand that they are thinking
of flowers like roses, irises, geraniums
which are tempered against the elements
bringing forth fragrant odours
that perfumes the air
but in your shade and care I am blossoming.
[Reference: The blossoming by Tatamkhulu Afrika, Vier gebede gedurende die jaargety in die Boland (Four prayers during the yearly seasons in the Boland.) by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Gloire de Dijon
When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.
She drips herself with water, and her shoulders
Glisten as silver, they crumple up
Like wet and falling roses, and I listen
For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.
In the window full of sunlight
Concentrates her golden shadow
Fold on fold, until it glows as
Mellow as the glory roses.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Photograph
I found this photograph
Underneath the broken picture glass
Tender face of black and white
Beautiful, a haunting sight
Looked into an angels smile
Captivated all the while
From the hair and clothes she wore
Id place her in between the wars
Was she willing when she sat
And posed the pretty photograph?
Save her flowering and fair
The days to come, the days to share
A big smile for the camera
How did she know?
The moment could be lost forever
Forever more
I found this photograph
Stashed between the old joist walls
In a place where time is lost
Lost behind, where all things fall
Broken books and calendars
Letters script in careful hand
Music too, a standard tune by
Some forgotten big brass band
From the threshhold whats to see
Of our brave new century?
The televisions just a dream
The radio, the silver screen
A big smile for the camera
How did she know?
The moment could be lost forever
Forever more
Was her childhood filled with rhymes
Stolen hooks, impassioned crimes?
Was she innocent or blind
To the cruelty of her time?
Was she fearful in her day
Was she hopeful, did she pray?
Were there skeletons inside
Family secrets, sworn to hide?
Did she feel the heat that stirs
The fall from grace of wayward girls?
Was she tempted to pretend
The love and laughter, til the end?
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winter's Pale Roses
Winter's pale roses
Always long for cold
On windows frosty poses
Until the ice can't hold
They give sliver threads
Of shining glow beauty
Hue of gray and reds
As morning comes to be
Like summer beauty doses
That fragrance much gives
Are those frosty roses
That inside my window lives
I'm feeling so much of joy
By having them around
When warmth they'll destroy
They'll in my heart be found
For all of beauty wakes
Within our soul and being
And all it sometimes takes
Is inner perception freeing
With love you have to shine
Like silver golden strings
And you will be doing fine
If beauty to you it brings
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Angel's Fall
Emptiness follows me
just like a shadow
that's cast on a wall
reflecting a dark past
that won't set me free
trapped inside myself
of what came to be
I watch Angel's fall
Looking through stained glass
at the things that would never last
my eye's can no longer see
my place of serenity
as I watch Angel's fall
Losing my sense of reality
with voices screaming inside my head
the hunger I fed
is tearing inside my soul
hiding behind the pain I can't let go
I watch Angel's fall
poem by Spiritwind Wood
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Flower in a garden
A boy on a bicycle
passes by
and whistles and waves,
but without looking at him
or twisting in his direction
the blonde girl
sprays water on her roses.
Two boys walk past
and call her name
and without looking up,
she shears a lavender bush
and sweat runs
into her eyes.
a Motor biker blows
his noisy cycle’s horn
and without leaving her work,
she keeps on shearing plants.
The girl works until dusk
and while the sun’s
last rays fall,
she is happy in her garden
and when the evening star
hangs in the sky
she is thrilled
with the blooming flowers,
of which the scent
hangs in the air.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Far Too Little I Know
I
Far too little I know about the things that lie between us,
I see the sea drawing back and rushing in,
I know too little to tell you about my love,
see your tracks disappearing over a sand dune.
I know too little to talk about a secret,
how one day can be so very special,
filled with life changing meaning,
about the things that I read in your eyes
but that that you really love me,
I know before the sea wipes our tracks away
when I kiss you and get you giggling,
while we give new steps into life
when you became the meaning in my small universe;
if you were the light falling through the window on me.
II
If you were the light falling through the window on me,
a star shining at night against the sky,
I would have been able to admire you, in days without end
but now thunder flashes down
whiter than daylight into my life
becoming part of my life,
to again jump to somewhere else
as if single moments are everything
and far too short was the time that you could stay,
with almost endless cheerfulness that you could bring
in this tough world as part of me,
where my heart could sing songs of joy
and far too little time I had invested in you,
how should I have known that I would make an oath with you?
III
How should I have know that I would make a oath with you
before I met you,
have a concept of such intimate feelings,
as with which you are part of my whole world?
How must I have know the meaning
of faith, love and hope
and about professing of true love
before our lives started together
on ways that I could not expect
and could learn to love
past events, years and times reaching to maybe,
that you are part of everything in me?
I want to love you as in days long past,
in the winter of my life.
IV
In the winter of my life
when all the trees around me stand skeleton,
with stripped branches shivering in the wind,
with sometimes a thunder bashing down
I sometimes remember the look in your sea-green eyes
where colours so secretly come together,
even when my body bend like branches, bended by age
as if in my thoughts they are looking forever at me,
it’s as if a new spring just have got to come,
as if your arms surround my neck,
with you flowering anew
as a angel of light
it’s sometimes as is you are with me,
when the morning starts with its first rays.
V
When the morning starts with its first rays,
with the sky changing from twilight grey to blue,
hang with the moon still hanging white
I am caught like a lizard
that prays to the sun,
where it’s rising white hot,
where I sit before your photograph
that shows every bit of your beauty,
but the nights and months past
while every day you look back
from that photograph
and I wonder if you still do love me?
and I think certainly, you are just as pretty,
when the sun throws its last rays over the trees.
VI
When the sun throws its last rays over the trees,
drawing shadows out long
before it reaches out
with long orange red rays
and the streetlights suddenly are awakening
give eyes to poles, becoming orange yellow
then I know
that you are somewhere else and just as pretty,
that you are laughing somewhere else,
caring after your children, doing your duties,
stretching yourself out for the night,
after kissing your children goodnight
and I am really longing while I am waiting,
I miss the way that you laugh in pleasure.
VII
I miss the way that you laugh in pleasure,
how you cry for a beautiful movie,
even expecting something good out of poor things,
how on a dark rainy night you shelter against me,
the way that you look at me,
the feelings that you bring to me,
as if you’re green eyes shines like the sea,
with every word going into my depths
but time takes an own road
and destiny is without mercy,
where at a time we both had to go different directions
and still try to jump over horizons with words
and maybe I have to court you again anew,
far too little I know about the things that lie between us.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 07: Two Lovers: Overtones
Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple,
Two lovers blow together like music blowing:
And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea.
Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them,
They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree.
'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh,
They look at the great clock's golden hands,
They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say:
Only, their words like music seem to play;
And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands.
'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars
Down the smooth heaven of her memory.
She stands again by a garden wall,
The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall,
Water sings from an opened tap, the bees
Glisten and murmur among the trees.
Someone calls from the house. She does not answer.
Backward she leans her head,
And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough
She sees an infinite May sky spread
A vault profoundly blue.
The voice from the house fades far away,
The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . .
The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . .
Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . '
She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know
She smiles from long ago . . .
She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him
Roars like a vast invisible sea,
Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver;
He is released of weight, his body is free,
He lifts his arms to swim,
Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . .
The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach
With a whirring sound like wind in bells,
He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands
Reaching his lazy hands
Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . .
'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?'
They pause and smile, not caring what they say,
If only they may talk.
The crowd flows past them like dividing waters.
Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk.
'Pink,—to-day!'—Face turns to dream-bright face,
Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them,
Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose.
She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror.
She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . .
Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust:
Time, like a flurry of rain,
Patters and passes, starring the window-pane.
Once, long ago, one night,
She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light,
Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror
A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down,
Softly around her a breath of roses was blown,
She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float
In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . .
'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm,
We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide,
The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows.
'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight!
Look how the tower is changed and glows!'
Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music,
We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass;
A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble;
We tremble like wind-blown grass.
What was this dream we had, a dream of music,
Music that rose from the opening earth like magic
And shook its beauty upon us and died away?
The long cold streets extend once more before us.
The red sun drops, the walls grow grey.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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In The Early Morning [2]
In the early morning
dew covers every piece of grass and flower
and I see green sprouts in the soft ground
that appears after the first rain,
some grow luxuriant and others are slender and fine.
Some dew covers every piece of grass and flower,
and new buds appear
on long green stems,
some grow luxuriant and others are slender and fine.
in an aromatic existence.
At dark red roses and pink hollyhocks
on long green stems,
butterflies appear new from there metamorphoses
while the sun spreads its yellow-golden rays,
at dark red roses and pink hollyhocks
bees and butterflies fly to and thro
in the early morning
while the sun spreads its yellow-golden rays
and I see green sprouts in the soft ground.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Christmas treasures
I count my treasures o'er with care.--
The little toy my darling knew,
A little sock of faded hue,
A little lock of golden hair.
Long years ago this holy time,
My little one--my all to me--
Sat robed in white upon my knee
And heard the merry Christmas chime.
"Tell me, my little golden-head,
If Santa Claus should come to-night,
What shall he bring my baby bright,--
What treasure for my boy?" I said.
And then he named this little toy,
While in his round and mournful eyes
There came a look of sweet surprise,
That spake his quiet, trustful joy.
And as he lisped his evening prayer
He asked the boon with childish grace;
Then, toddling to the chimney-place,
He hung this little stocking there.
That night, while lengthening shadows crept,
I saw the white-winged angels come
With singing to our lowly home
And kiss my darling as he slept.
They must have heard his little prayer,
For in the morn, with rapturous face,
He toddled to the chimney-place,
And found this little treasure there.
They came again one Christmas-tide,--
That angel host, so fair and white!
And singing all that glorious night,
They lured my darling from my side.
A little sock, a little toy,
A little lock of golden hair,
The Christmas music on the air,
A watching for my baby boy!
But if again that angel train
And golden-head come back for me,
To bear me to Eternity,
My watching will not be in vain!
1879.
poem by Eugene Field
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Lovely One
Lovely one,
Just as on the cool stone
Of the spring, the water
Opens a wide flash of foam,
So is the smile of your face,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
With delicate hands and slender feet
Like a silver pony,
Walking, flower of the world,
Thus I see you,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
With a nest of copper entangled
On your head, a nest
The coloUr of dark honey
Where my heart burns and rests,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
Your eyes are too big for your face,
Your eyes are too big for the earth.
There are countries, there are rivers,
In your eyes,
My country is your eyes,
I walk through them,
They light the world
Through which I walk,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
Your breasts are like two loaves made
Of grainy earth and golden moon,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
Your waist,
My arm shaped it like a river when
It flowed a thousand years through your sweet body,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
There is nothing like your hips,
Perhaps earth has
In some hidden place
The curve and the fragrance of your body,
Perhaps in some place,
Lovely one.
Lovely one, my lovely one,
Your voice, your skin, your nails,
Lovely one, my lovely one,
Your being, your light, your shadow,
Lovely one,
All that is mine, lovely one,
All that is mine, my dear,
When you walk or rest,
When you sing or sleep,
When you suffer or dream,
Always,
When you are near or far,
Always,
You are mine, my lovely one,
Always.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Early one afternoon
Early one afternoon
I walked through the streets
of a small village
and it had to be in Italy
and was probably in Corona
or Tuscany.
a Baker with a white overcoat
and white hat on his head
rang on his bike’s bell for me
and pedalled pass,
with an old green bike
at the Pizza Palour.
There were long white breads
and green wine bottles,
in the baskets of his bicycle
and he had a big bush
of red blue lanvender flowers in one hand.
Across from me there were three small tables
with white table-covers,
at the Villa Toscana
and I could read some dishes
from the menu on the wall.
At the wall a young woman
with dark hair and an indigo dress
laughed sharp and bright,
while she waited
that a well built waitress
pour some more wine.
The image of the beautiful waitress
with black hair and deep dark eyes,
that bends forward
still stays with me.
In front of me at Le Art
there were a row of paintings,
depicting nudes to the finest detail
on painter’s easels.
I walked nearer
and I could see rows of violet lavender bushes
against the ridge in the distance
and Villa’s, that stand yellow gold
up on the hill
and looked impressive
against the deep blue sky.
When I got back to myself
I was at the fountain
in front of the mural
in our garden
and the golden Persian cat,
watched me from the top of the wall
with a woolly tail that curled down
and it looked with golden eyes at me.
[Reference: Tuscan mural by Mandi. See the painting at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1417_Early_one_af ternoon.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Angel
the halo that appears above your head
just that i wished once before
now to actually appear before me
cuz you're the salt of the earth
a saint
a symbol
one to never let go
from which that i wish to hold you and kiss your lips so
the angel of mine
those wings of yours seem so tired
so small for you to fly
so come here
let me comfort your heart and lighten the load
so...
let me, my baby, my angel, smile once again for me
cuz don't let me see that broken smile once more
cuz you lie to my very face with this negativity
but I can see the pain in your cute eyes
you appear like a mortal
but you truly an angel to my eyes
I know when I see one cuz you give off the very light of this very angel
your steps have no sound
from my side, it looks like you fly instead
those feathers in your wings looked rumpled as if someone were harsh to my angel
so come here...
you are in the care of my arms
though i'm a mere little mortal to you
I still think to want to hold and kiss there on your lips
so if I can't trust you, I can trust no one
I can only give you so much
but I can do is give you protection and my heart
my angel, my angel
*sigh*
what a beautiful sight you are
greater, grander than any 7 wonders of Earth
greater than riches, gold, and any sweet car any boy would want
not that I love cars but very distant from it
like I am to you
so I hope to pull this rope between us
to hold you tight
but an angel, an angel
that halo above you head
the beauty greater than pure silver
those eyes greater than any other brown
you say you're no greater than I
I say yes
but I say to myself
you are forever an angel to me ^-^
poem by Kevin Wang
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Flower of my heart
You hair hangs curling
like flower shoots
in auburn strings
past your shoulders.
You smile very cute
and there’s something unknown,
secret cutting through all reason
into my soul.
To me you are more precious,
more beautiful than any other flower
that burst open in glory
Words become unfit
and totally unnecessary between us
when your tongue twists around mine.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Fantasy Temptations
The beautiful colorful flowers I smell
The beautiful green grass I feel
The beautiful sidewalk I walk on
The beautiful clouds I see
The beautiful birds soaring across the sky
Leads through the wondrous doors of Heaven
Because it's fantasy temptations
The fresh air slowly drifts up my nose
Who knew it would be this beautiful
Where has this place been all my life?
I lay under the stars as I fall asleep
Without any worries
I wake to the soft melody of the singing birds
Because it's fantasy temptations
As I drink water from the fountain it tastes pure
As I walk the path it's the Lord
I gracefully smile and say
If only reality was this peaceful
poem by Alisha Ricks
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The Scenic Garden
As I walk with your hand in mine, I see the most beautiful paradise known to man,
My eyes water at the magnificence of this garden like land,
Everything looks as if it’s a dream beyond the farthest span,
Let’s take a walk through paradise as I hold your hand,
I can see that majestic fountain that sits in the center of the garden of glee,
I observe in awe as I see the water flow gently down the steeps,
And it seems as if this is all made up in a dream,
But the reality is that in this garden of glee is where the angels sleep,
I’ve never seen something so beautiful in my life,
It looks as if the heavens came down to enhance my dream like sight,
The flowers are so scenic of pink, yellow, red and white,
This wonderland is so beautiful the plants blossom in the night,
As I walk with your hand in mine the rain drizzles gently to the ground,
I listen closely and I hear the birds chirping in the most beautiful of sounds,
I’m surrounded by magic in this beautiful garden all around,
Then I turn to you and lay my lips on yours,
I close my eyes in the process and realize it’s even more beautiful than before,
What I’ve realized is that, this magic garden isn’t the most that I adore,
It’s your hand in mine that I’ll hold forever more.
poem by Kurt Kacich
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Mystical reality
There are red flames
that’s curling in a bush
out of her head
and the fairy princess
are pure and innocent
with her violet
flower petal dress,
which shows her body
at places through the thin material.
She has green magically beautiful eyes
and pointed little ears
and slender arms and legs
and her fine transparent wings,
sweeps past and looks
as if it is made
from the thinnest silk.
About her there’s clusters
of golden flowers
and in the background,
a gigantic female angel
with ink blue thought struck eyes
that is near to protect her.
The strict face
of the blonde angel
looks like that of a mother,
that is watching over her child
and I see her blue white wings
that fold over each other
and her deep blue dress
with its golden collar
looks like that of a queen.
[Reference: Mystical reality. Painting by Mandi. Look at the painting on my website: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1415_Mystical_rea lity.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Green Grasses
Green beautiful grasses
Where lands the butterflies
Green grasshoppers just hopped
Greedily shining beautifully to be alive
Looking deeply in ones gazing eyes
And don't know how to say goodbye
Or tell ones flesh never to smile freely
With these green grasses
That smiles with a dog tooth
For flesh makes grasses ever green.
Green beautiful grasses
Just doesn't feel right
Growing on a burial ground
Across ones head
Having no yesterday,
And no to-morrow.
Forgetting thoughts, taught, time
Forgetting fortune, life and love
Lying at peace
With grasses growing all over ones head
Green beautiful grasses
Where I lay when I rise to the morning sun
Stretching legs during the burning ray
Forgetting about death or life
Feeling an angel
Angels cherish a background
Looking so beautiful,
A sight to see
A scene to show
How deep is a love….
written by: Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
© 2012
poem by Onyekachukwu Vincent Onyeche
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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