poetry
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The truth had long been concealed, Whispered a voice beyond the veil; In a grave manner she revealed, What had caused her heart to fail. She whispered of her sorrow, She’d been forced to confess a lie; Time no longer could she borrow, She had been condemned to die. Barefoot to the gallows she went,
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While this poem is listed in the forgotten files category, it was never truly forgotten. I wrote it nearly 20 years ago. It was inspired by the large Hickory tree that stands at the end of my driveway. My husband and I named it The Whispering Tree. It is a beautiful old tree, full of
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Hushing the voices, a dark quill shattered. When I listed my books from last to first and realized their titles formed a complete sentence, I was stunned. It was not something I consciously planned, and yet there it was: a cathartic trio of books wrapped up in a sentence. It seemed more like a message
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I’m surrounded by the dead, Their memories in my head, Their photographs by my bed,I ponder what lies ahead. Their thoughts through me seep,Their pains ache and weep,Their agonies cut quite deep,My words through them seep. My writings are their choice,The whispers are their voice,In remembrance they rejoice,Their memories are my choice. I must pen
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Don’t think for yourself,You’ll get confused or lost;We’ve got all your answers,And they’ve all been glossed. Only we speak the truth,And there is much to fear;Yet with us you’ll have hope,To our rules you must adhere. This way to the promise,Our unquestioning sheep;But should you speak out,Guilt upon you we’ll heap. For we know too
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There is a pathThat leads to eternity,Where trees guide the wayWith unwavering certainty. There is a path where pain ceasesAnd dreams are released,Where one’s level of consciousnessIs greatly increased. There is a pathThat if you dare follow,What you are today,You shall no longer be tomorrow. There is a path to understandingWhere you will instinctively know,The
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Perceptions often distorted, Things not always as they seem; Reality is often illusion,That which is but a dream. What appears to be happiness,Is merely a cheerful mask;Nothing but a pleasant fiction,A daily perfected task. Can love break all barriers?Can it save an aching soul?Can it redeem a self-betrayal?Can it make an empty heart whole? A lifetime of
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As I walked a path of orange and gold,The crisp feeling of the autumn air;I found myself lost in the memory of you,And pondered how life was unfair. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath,Had I come to terms with my choice?Sorrow washed in and filled me with regret;In my mind echoes the
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There is beauty inThe little things,Like song bird wingsAnd front porch swings. There is beauty everywhere,All around;The clouds in the sky,The flowers on the ground. There is beautyAnd if you try,You can see itAnd it may make you cry; For there is beauty inYour heart and soul,That will withstand timeAnd never grow old. From my
SB LACROIX 