Money Back

I really tried to make the thing work
I spent all the money I ever had
...it was to no avail and I grew so damn mad

I wanted to exchange it for a better trade
I wanted to go take it right back
...but it was too twisted to repack

I wanted to demand a full refund of monies
I thought about going right back in
...but it was another battle I wouldn't win

The manufacturer didn't intend a defective device
I had hoped for, but knew there would be no recall
...I finally just threw my head against the wall

...and that's the story of my buying you, all in all

Writing Abode

I set out for a traipse
Through woodland of the green
To take a breath of purest air
To renew my senses keen

Enjoying was I my little stroll
When the thicket I came upon
Gave way to scarcely a path
Beckoning me to continue on

I followed minutely a trail
Which lead me to this place
Where a quaint little cottage
Had grown flowers as her face

She stood rather small
And wore a hat of mossy thatch
Lined with ribbon about the brim
That lead to a pond of rainwater catch

Morning glory enshrouded glass eyes
In dark I know must glow
Had I not looked for them
I fear that they would never show

Her mouth was of the deepest red
Where the antique rose now grows
And above it there, entwined by ivy
A wreath grew gaily as her nose

I stepped back and looked once more
Into those eyes of glory growing blue
Their temptation proved far too much
So I fulfilled my desire to peer on through

I could see small lamps were lit
Casting warmth of fragile glow
I grew lost, encumbered by thought
Penetrate did this my soul

I then caught wind of aromatic proportion
That comes only from the rose
I believed it a polite gesture
I thought it an invitation to impose

Resisting not I stepped inside
And lunged down upon a chair
Then looked back out the window
To see the view from there

I saw such a beautiful rainbow
Lending end for even more to see
There, a plethora of flowers had grown,
I dreamed...were they there for me?

I noticed beyond all color
Encroaching was there the deepest thicket
But wiser was my cottage host
Who guarded herself with a line of white picket

Up above, I could see the sky
Of blue sheets and white pillows
And straight ahead, near the path
She had lined herself with willows

I never wanted to forget this-
This place I before never knew
I wanted to stay here forever
Though I longed to share it all with you

I thought that I might leave
To go back home and fetch you
And bring you to this mesmerizing place
So you could feel its charisma too

But afraid that I may not again find
This cottage with her lovely face
I thought that I should write it down
As never to forget this charming place

So I settled myself quite comfortably in
With pen and paper and mode
And began to relay the story of how
I found my writing abode

Nancy Roberts ©2001

Visit How Sweet the Sound for Pink Saturday 

A Southern Daydreamer for Outdoor Wednesday 

 Blue Monday at Smiling Sally

Weekly Words to Live By at A Cottage Industry

Show Off Your Cottage Monday at House in the Roses

Making Your Home Sing Monday, hosted by Mom’s the Word

Gathering at the Well, hosted by At the Well

Happy Homemaker Monday, hosted by Diary of a Stay at Home Mom

Words That Don't Come Out Right

It is sometimes difficult to say exactly what I think-

Though the thought is just on the tip of my minds brink,

My tongue often delivers a message that doesn't quite make the link.

Joining  504 Main,  HodgePodge Friday, Finer Things Friday , HOH,  Creation Corner

To A Romanian Boy

Corrugated walls
Shelter of no strength
Hurled inside
Positioned to fetal sleep
Monsters lurk all hours
In and out of me they creep
Callousness belongs to me -
Yet still I weep
I know not from where I come
The street reaps its toll
I wither amongst the many
Who never learned to cajole
I inhale this noxious fume
For it eases the pain
My utter voracity
Temporarily subsides with bane
Posion abated, hunger again beckons
-For no real meal ever came
An orphan of Romania,
To you, is my name
Nothing else do I know...
Ah, but I did once dream-
I rode my bicycle
Away from these things.

Color of Death

Never did I know that nature
held more of this hue
I thought only birds, bright eyes and
the sky to be of blue-
But then I saw your face, in eternal sleep,
had been given this color to
How again can I ever find solace
in the color I once thought I knew?

Nancy Roberts
May 2001

Poetry, I Believe Meant To Be

POEM:
A verbal composition characterized by the use of condensed language chosen for its sound and suggestive power.
American Heritage Dictionary
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Poetry, I believe meant to be
through language, an inner stirring
A means to conjure memories;
A step back to their occurring


Poetry, I believe meant to be
with what time it takes to write
a means by which I slip away-
an invitation to minds flight

Poetry, I believe meant to be
through usage of my words
a way for me to speak to you,
thus never really being heard


Poetry, I believe meant to be
with pen and paper on hand
a means to share through writing-
just who it is I really am


Poetry, I believe meant to be
through its readers eyes
a chance to understand and see
its author without disguise


Poetry, I believe meant to be
when given, it is of myself
a way to find a part of me
placed upon my minds back shelf


Poetry, I believe meant to be
through imaginative allusion
the means to take me to a place-
where I am drawn to this conclusion:


Poetry, I believe meant to be.


~Nancy Roberts~
©2002 


Joining Laurie for Favorite Things Saturday