She Tells No Spoken Lies, by Toni L.A. Cross

she laughs and always smiles

so carefully composed

while secretly, she dies

no one sees her graveyard

in still lurking shadows

deceiving carefree eyes

they do not see her pain

a great and looming past

that clouds all inner skies

plain bliss is on display

they think that all is well

she tells no spoken lies

falling, falling, falling tear… by Toni L.A. Cross

 

falling, falling, falling tear

seeing my stupidity in yet another year

my conscience is limping from this sudden sear

and i’ve hurt someone who is very dear

everything looks hopeful and i finally do life right

except for one thing that unflinchingly came to light

then another and another join the growing blight

there’s no end, no end, no happiness in sight

wishing for a day when I finally mature

the day i swallow a permanent cure

 

Wednesday’s child is full of woe… by Toni L.A. Cross

 Yet another poetry/photo challenge from Charles Martin.

 

 
 
If at birth the mother knew all the pain her seed would know-
She sits and reflects in the eerie fire’s glow
 
Wednesday’s child is full of woe
 
She covers her ears and cowers in her veil
As the screams of a nation climax in a wail
 
Wednesday’s child is full of woe
 
Torn apart by the grief she sees
She falls once again onto her bloody knees
 
Wednesday’s child is full of woe
 
Imprisoned by helplessness inability to act
Just half of a man- she’s told it’s a fact
 
Wednesday’s child is full of woe
 
 
 

Music of A Human Life

This is a poem written as part of a photo challenge from my WordPress friend, Charles Martin. He sent this photo and asked me to write a poem to go with it.

He surveys his life fondly

From a distance, he reflects

Wondering at the music

All the mistakes

The joy and the pain

Blend into such a marvelous symphony

Listen to the lilting flute

That tells the tale of carefree youth

And hear the cello’s solemn resound

Rich strings of compassion tying all together

The violins of romance

Take a turn about

Flavoring the music with rich beauty and grace

Then anguish takes its turn

With crashing timpani

The orchestra breathes a sighing breath

And starts again

High and sweet

The piccolo sings of art and magic

Brassy bold the trumpets blare

Of manly glory and pride

Then once again the cello

Comes out to very front

And leads us all

To a place of gentle aged grace