callie1066

Rhapsody Silk moves without noise, upon the breeze so lightly. Velvet smooth and black as night, Colors glinting in the sun's delight. From one to the next It finds its way, Gently lighting upon petals delicate. Fluff has more weight than thee I say. Beauty so sweet for mortal beings To glide like thee Upon gossamer wings. Wistful make the eyes of children. Take me with thee Fair one please! Leave me not In mortal Rhapsody.

Chimes   Their singing as if fairies, angels play within their midst's Peace

Winds Rain, the tinkling of sleet mixed with Cold white flakes Winter

This is a descriptive poem of another artist that resides here. The gentle nature that is there and shows more often than not.

We wash our hands for many reasons, but metaphorically it means many things. To wash ones hands of problems, then walk away. To wash hands of something disturbing, hoping it will erase it from our minds and past Washing hands mentally closing the doors on further errors or conflicts How well we wash our hands of things disturbing, intruding, stressing and otherwise...dirty. Human beings are an odd sort of creature when it comes to being dirty in different ways.

Anger is something that eats at the gut Like an ulcer that starts out a small pain It ends up a burning ache that makes you clench, curl up before its over, blood flows, the pain is unbareble as your mind reels Where do you turn, where do you go as you lay curled up tears flowing as it takes over everything that you've understood Anger turns to something raw, animal like, looking to feed, gnawing at whatever it was that caused it to flare Claws gashing, teeth tearing, mind turned in upon itself, as things no longer look logical but red in the feeding frenzy. After time, anger slowly cools, like water putting out flames, steam risin

Eyes watching from many sides... upwards forwards, downwards, mine... Once darkness was all that abide Now bound by evil snide Forced into evil bound, to gain throne of Silver ground One of hated, buzzing wings, Protecting that which is sought, the war begins

Little spirits flit and skirt among the meadow's flowers, to dance with dewdrops during moonlit hours. Elves and fairies will play with all who come to see them hither, to show them lost childhood dreams and remember how to flitter. But spirits come in all forms as many of you can see, for spirits are not just fairies as many would believe. To many spirits are children, at play among woodland trees, their laughter the tinkling of silver bells dancing upon the breeze. Their imagination lends a brief relief to our frantic lives, to show us fairies still exist among our modern strife. So please remember children are us in a future