Thy love gives me voice.
Between the lines I scribble,
I yearn, surrender.
My quill yields, ingeminate,
I paint my paper with you.
Between the lines I scribble,
I yearn, surrender.
My quill yields, ingeminate,
I paint my paper with you.
The pulse of freedom
There is a sight I hold dear. A misty morning, a grey veil, green hills in the background, lush and abundant. On the fore, at about 100 feet...
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He went there. Daily. Unfailingly. His conversations, Candid, Intimate. And why not! He had Inspired That iron-man, ...
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The sun was nearly gone. So were the last of his passengers. That was what he thought. Driving the cab at snail-pace through city’s traffi...
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The 12 inch heel, the confident gait, The measured steps, the sudden halt, The blush on cheeks, the smoldering eyes, The hands on h...
Thank you.
ReplyDeleteVery nice !
ReplyDeleteThank you so much Gattina
DeleteAh, to feel that passion and strength.
ReplyDeleteThe View from the Top of the Ladder
Would be a blessing, I guess.
DeleteI always enjoy your poetry!
ReplyDeleteAnd I always enjoy hearing from you.
DeleteThank you Sarah for such sweet compliments.
I have done that, and it fills me with such joy and peace. What a wonderful post!!
ReplyDeleteThank you Judie. It is good to hear that you could relate so well.
Delete