ACROSTIC (RECONCILIATION)

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GARDEN WHISPERS

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As I patiently wait for flowers to bloom, I ponder the whispers of my garden’s womb.   As the breeze blares and touches my brown skin I feel the gentle caress where new dreams begin   New plants mirror generations to come; tree shadows shield us from the scorching sun.   Withered leaves remind me, soft and kind, All things pass with time, let's hold that  in mind.   White hibiscus buds reach toward the skies, a beacon of hope, a promise that never lies.   Sunlight graciously infuses life, Flowers burst forth with quiet pride. Rain becomes their faithful friend, nurturing soil, helping some to mend   Tall plants shelter and shadow the young ones, They're small, yet they stand where glory runs.   Orange bougainvillea starts to appear, dangling to the ground, like my spirit blossoms bright, wild and round.   Red blooms guard my welcoming entrance, showing strong and blissful abundance.   These simple sights feed my vibrant glee As I savored...
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MY GRACIOUS PEN

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 My gracious pen... As my pen sways like a whirling dervish Dances with my heart and spirit that cherish It gives breath to my candid plume color Rejuvenates my core in a dainty glamor. Bestrewing love to my modest thought Relishing peace and love throughout My pen is much mightier than a sword. It chooses words that glitter like gold. It has a ton of magical and wondrous gleams. With so much tenderness, it gently glistens. With the sobriety of my plume, my pen is merry As it breathes kindness, it's getting lovely My pen softens the enemy's insensitive heart It mellows agonies, torments, and wrath It fills compassion with disdained emotions. Till it melts from hatred to love sensation My pen is calm as it recedes selfishness It can appease tempers and distresses  The blades of its sword spark and glint I wish its enduring luster will last till then When its sharpness would be blunted. Feebleness comes from its master's head. But with my passion that is so intense In peace a...
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NOTHING IMPOSSIBLE IN THE HEAVEN BENEATH

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This is the poem that made the multi-awarded poetess Deborah Brooks Langford the cry which she mentioned in her interview conducted by the beautiful Author Susan Joyner-Stumpf Nothing impossible in the heaven beneath... My children are my golden treasure... bringing back my thoughts to my yesteryears my story began when I was a teenage mother... through breastfeeding, I nurtured my first son till no milk from me, I could squeeze upon I wished to feed him nutrients he essentially needs to abound I lacked to provide him; my world seemingly didn't go round it bled my heart as my purse was thin and empty windows were only covered by sacks. That was how pity was we and nothing could be found in every corner of our dinky shelter even tiny ashes of regrets couldn't be found in there ...how bare it was.. it was representing me... from there, I just learned to dream though not for me but for them I believe it's not late to create a nest for my coming children behind that huge moun...
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