Hoofbeats

1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
the soft pounding, relaxed
padding into dirt, slowly
over frozen February ground.

1-2, 1-2
gait quickens, up down
rising to the air as muscles
throw, snaps jingling.

1-2-3, 1-2-3
off goes the hooves, ears
perked, running wild
free, going with the beat.

Dropped in the River

Walk across the bridge, look down at the stones
as the water rushed over their rough edges,
blotting out moss, slapping dirt.

Hand hung over the edge of the railing,
watching stream after stream, waves
crashing, slowly slipping.

tiny piece of metal that held heart
falling, hand over crown, crown over hands
little band gone, sparkling against

rough rocks. gone before breathe
before the tears. disappeared
into the dirt. invisible. lost.

when the wind howls, i try and block it out with song, drawing the demons and ghosts away from the door with the sweet sound.

Angel of Death

a single rose falling onto granite
suspended in air as the petals rest,
the cold frost bitten ground, solid
no more alive than you are now.

i died that day inside, lost
part of me that once made me whole
that reminded me why i do what i do
but you are gone, in the ground, have been

for 4 years. i was too young, too naive
to understand just how much
you meant to me, the stories
the encouragement, the life you spoke of.

so now you sit, in row Q, marker 28,
your partner there with you, as i feel
your soul come out from the ground, breathe
life inside my body, whispering

just how much i mean to you, an angel
watching over my shoulder, wrapping
your wings close, curling me inside your nest
chirping soft notes like your old bird calls in the park.

The Pebble

brought into an unfamiliar place
dumped in a pot filled with others
conforming to their society
lost in the sea of likeness
rolls away, gone from the we

can either be kicked
or nestle in the crevice
and refuse to move
with the stubbornness
of a thousand mules

there are those that stumble
upon the pebble attempt to throw it
back into the society of pebbles
and disappear into the pile
but some pick it up, treat it well

with hopes that the pebble will bring luck
or at least give the pebble a chance
to sometimes hurt the heels of strangers
but otherwise live on its own
and make a wonderful pet rock.

The Lake

Stick legs sunk deep into the ground
like white picket fences sitting along the grass line.
a sea of glistening onyx as the fluorescent orange
from the street lamp reflects its shadow into the depths

Two lovers resting on the dock,
one with knees curled, cigarette in her mouth
the other standing so stoic, so still
like a toothpick in a burnt brownie.

trees waves their bristling brown branches
providing some comfort, but a hidden mystery
laying in the dark of their trunks
nude without their leaves.

moon overhead with streaks of clouds
playing hide and seek with the stars
blinking their light as to not let
the fish gain comfort and security.

Apple Tree

Resting in an orchard, filled with green
sat a young baby apple tree, waving in the wind.
Its fruit stood tall, hanging on by their tiny stems.
But some stumbled to the ground, lost in the weeds
of the orchard, forgotten. Their lush flavors
would never be tasted, never matter.

As the tree grew, its fruits did too
reaching high toward the tip of the sky.
The young pickers, the ones out in the orchard
to just grab their bundles and leave,
wiped out the low hanging fruit, forcing
them to tumble in their buckets.

The slightly older pickers, the one who knew
the patterns of the orchard, went more carefully
through the trees, taking the middle fruit
more carefully than the young pickers, but still
swift and efficient, taking only a bit less than
the buckets would hold.

But the highest sitting fruit proved the most difficult.
Only the most experienced, oldest pickets
would climb to the top of the ladder, taking each apple
delicately, as if it were their sole child.
These pickers would bring in the least, however
the orchard owner loved them.
For each apple was luscious and red and special
to not be made into a pie or mashed into a cider,
but eaten so slowly, each ounce of flavor loved.

Beauty and the Beast- by Christa

It's a tale as old as time,
Kaitlyn and her Beast,
and though she is Beauty,
he could be too,
if you count all the beautiful things
he brings to her life
like her laughter
and her love
and the voids he fills
in her heart.

Tunnel of Mazes

Searching blind, hand running along the side
of the cold, wet moss-covered wall that bent and twisted
Overhead only darkness, dripping drops of tar.
Every turn, a new obstacle, a boulder, a fire
licking across the path. Frightened, swerving
from side to side, heart beat rising.
Only dark as the maze grew on.

Slowly, a glimmer. Maybe a light?
But alas, it is not. It is only a tiny orb
of hope that drifts away as quickly as it came.
Terror builds in every vein of blood surging
through skin and cells. But what is that?

The maze opens as the darkness begins to clear,
is this the end of me? Am I dead? But no, a friendly light,
the ray of sense that I needed, my way out.
And there you stood, the sun beaming out from your pockets,
a gentle breeze drifting your hair into your eyes,
a hand reached out to take my own that has been blood torn
and pricked by the thorns of the walls of the maze,
as we step into safety.

Gazing Moon- final poem

Up through black mountains, mist-hidden,
Crouched in a graven cave, eyes blink in the darkness-
a pack of wolves.
Thick white-grey fur blends together.

A round harvest moon, orange-tinged,
assembles with the stars.
Furry chins nestled against the others' necks,
As the pups breathe silent puffs in the dam's fur.

Rich brown eyes hidden by lids, she snoozes;
lighter hazel swirling with hints of green,
he guards his pack, his everythings,
as they dream silently in their slumbers.

As a pack mate howls one last time at the moon,
the sun pushes the dark clouds away
dragging along the oranges and reds and blues,
life and movement and hearts, beating as one.