Faeries Among Us!

Just before dawn, a walk in the woods.

My senses are heightened, if only I could

Watch the wee faeries skip from tree to tree.

In the cloudy mist, I can almost see

Sparkling colors dancing in the sky.

But it fades away when I blink my eyes.

Just a trick of the light with the coming dawn.

There are no glowing pathways through the fog.

 But do I hear a tiny giggle or is it the wind?

I can’t hear when it ends or where it begins.

Just the echo of a whisper from a dream

Or the laughter of a gurgling stream.

Small birds and animals are chirping and chattering.

Why does it sound like ethereal voices singing?

Just a glimpse of color, a hint of a song.

Then the sun rises and I had it all wrong.

There are no faeries; the laughter is gone.

Angel
Faeries dwell among us!

 

 

 

 

 

The Simplicity of Writing Takes You Wherever You Wish

A Little Knook and Cranny is All I Need to Go Anywhere and Do Anything!
A Little Knook and Cranny is All I Need to Go Anywhere and Do Anything!

I write when I’m happy.

I write when I’m sad.

I write songs just for me

Or to share all I’ve had.

I write what I see.

And words to inspire.

I create a fantasy

In my mind to desire.

I don’t have to take my car

Or a train or a plane.

Just let things be as they are.

My thoughts are the refrain

And my dreams write the verse.

I never have to rehearse.

I can see or be anything I choose.

I can always win, never lose.

I can be young or old.

Create stories never before told

And travel to other times.

All mimicked in rhyme.

Such is the view

From without and within

I’ll write them to you

To show you where I’ve been.

–Deborah A. Bowman

The Quill And Ink Are Like A Frail, Dark Rose…poem by Deborah A. Bowman, set to music…6th Century Bard’s Melody (Anonymous)

The Quill And Ink…

Quill and ink are like a frail, dark rose

Beautiful, elegant, unsurpassed;

But the thorns draw blood and clots as ye go.

The delicate flowers will not last.

But the glorious rose will bloom another day

In the warmth of the Spring’s golden rays.

The quill, the black feather, can turn on you

Blotting out the sun on the white pristine page.

Leaving coarsed lines and thickened loops,

The point skims across the grain of the parchment’s gauge,

Sprinkling blotches of Indigo ink,

Falling raindrops and tears as you blink.

The quill and the ink;

The rose and the thorn;

Teaches you patience and reticence.

So strike up the flint and raise up the flame

To drip the wax and seal the blame.

Copyrighted by Deborah A. Bowman, 1998