Round Robin 6

Simply a promise of warmer weather
lightens my load as I shed winter layers
from my frame. I feel lighter, more carefree.
One step forward, though, and two steps back
as cold and rain remind us that dreariness
lingers in the unsuspecting.

Nature's creations do not heed the final warnings
for frost in the darkened hours. They break ground
and show themselves in the unexpected havens
beneath the decayed leaves left from last season.
They dare to be bold and beautiful as they poke
their heads out and demand attention.

A spot of color, that special brightness, in my day
is enough that I can ignore the setback of weather
and look forward to what tomorrow will bring.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and that light
shines brightly and warmly amid the chilliness
left behind by the old man of winter.

My own age disappears as I stroll through the sunshine
and peer at the new blossoms that peer at me. A careful hand
can uncover the treasures offered by nature in the gold,
bronze, and silver that adorns the butterfly as he spreads
his wings. Take flight after the months wrapped
in a cocoon of blankets, sweaters, and coats.

Round Robin 5

I Believe

I believe there is an angel
watching over me in my times of fear.
I believe most things are temporary
if only I have the strength to endure.
Carry on and make the best decisions
available at the time; regret nothing
as it only brings pain unchecked.

They say good things come to those
who wait; well, I've waited but my angel
shows me patience when I've none left.
Things often don't work the way we plan.
The outcome may actually be superior.
It doesn't pay to play "what if?"
It is better to accept and move on.

Trust in yourself and be true above all.
The rest of the world will adapt.
If that doesn't work, it is their loss alone.
Let your "angel" guide you as does mine.
Our paths may cross upon our journeys
and I will welcome you with open arms.
If not, may we both end someplace better.

I believe in myself.

Round Robin 4

The shepherd does not lead me
through the clouds this night.
As hard as I count, the sheep
and the clouds turn into pillows
that choke the breath from me.
I toss and turn with every stoke
of the clock and the pillow
against my face.

Invisible hands will not leave me
alone in my weariness--my pain.
They torment me into sweating frenzy
as I struggle against my assailant.
The hands are not attached
to anyone in particular;
they are attached to my thoughts
that push down on me like bricks.

I've buried myself alive
and have forgotten how to live.
I no longer enjoy the company
of the shepherd in my drifting
toward forgetfulness. My shepherd
has painted the sheep black,
almost invisible in the darkness.
My shepherd wants me dead.