Category: Poetry

She walks with embers in her hair,
A wildfire’s glow, a whispered dare.
The sun itself bows down in shame,
For nothing burns quite like her flame.

Her eyes hold storms, the rolling tide,
A reckless spark she will not hide.
Lips like cherries, sweet yet bold,
A tale of passion, fierce and old.

She laughs like thunder, loud and bright,
A force of nature, raw and right.
No cage could tame, no hand contain,
The tempest woven in her veins.

Yet softer hues lie underneath,
A touch of warmth, a hidden sheath.
For fire, though wild, can also mend,
Can spark a love that knows no end.

So heed the redhead’s untamed call,
And lose yourself, or lose it all.

A shadow fell across the sun,
A battle I’d not yet begun.
A name, a word, a heavy sound—
Cancer whispered life unwound.

The world grew smaller, time stood still,
Each breath a climb, a steeper hill.
Appointments, scans, a cold, hard stare,
Hope is tangled in a web of care.

The mirror holds a shifting face,
A fragile strength, a tender grace.
Each scar, a map, each line, a tale,
Of battles fought and small prevails.

The taste of joy is sharper now,
In every moment, here and how.
The laughter brighter, tears more pure,
Life distilled, raw, unsure.

Some days the weight is hard to bear,
A silent prayer hung in the air.
Yet still, the heart beats steady, true,
With dreams to chase, and skies to blue.

For cancer lives, but so do I,
With fire burning, reaching high.
A journey steep, a winding road,
But love’s the balm that lights the load.

So here I stand, both frail and strong,
Singing life’s unyielding song.
With every breath, I claim my place,
Defiant in the fight I face.

Beneath the stars where shadows creep,
Death walks softly, stirring sleep.
No scythe to gleam, no cruel demand,
Just the brush of a tender hand.

Its voice, a whisper, calm and low,
Echoes through where we cannot go.
Not foe nor friend, but ancient guide,
A silent ferry o’er the tide.

It wears no mask, no dread disguise,
But holds the weight of countless skies.
Its footsteps weave through time’s vast thread,
A keeper of the paths we tread.

The bloom that fades, the ember’s glow,
The frost that seals the rivers’ flow—
All part of Death’s eternal art,
A closing door, a fresh new start.

And though we fear its quiet grace,
It folds us in a warm embrace,
For Death is not the end we flee,
But the shadow’s path to eternity.

The people we love don’t leave us whole,
They slip into shadows, yet fill the soul.
A lingering laugh, a touch of light,
They dance through dreams in the depth of night.

We see them in the stars, in the wind’s soft sigh,
In the way leaves tremble as seasons fly.
Their voices echo in the quiet rain,
A tender balm for the sharpest pain.

In the fading hues of twilight’s glow,
Their presence lingers, though they go.
A hand unseen on our weary hearts,
Reminding us we’re never apart.

For love transcends the weight of loss,
It walks through fire, it bears the cross.
And when we falter, their whispers say,
“I’m with you still, though miles away.”

So we carry their light through the paths we tread,
For the people we love are never quite dead.
They live in our steps, in the love we give,
In the endless truth: they taught us to live.

Upon the field where warriors tread,
A symphony of grit is spread.
The whistle blows, the play begins,
Where strength and strategy both win.

The ball arcs high, a spiraled flight,
Cutting through the autumn night.
A running back breaks through the line,
Momentum fueled by fire divine.

Helmets clash, a thunderous sound,
The roar of fans shakes the ground.
Sideline hearts beat wild and loud,
Heroes rise to thrill the crowd.

The quarterback, a poised command,
Leads the charge with steady hand.
His vision sharp, his aim precise,
A moment’s chance, a roll of dice.

Receivers dart like fleeting dreams,
A ballet in the floodlight beams.
The end zone nears, the stakes are high,
Each heartbeat syncs with time’s brief cry.

The game’s not just a battle fought,
But lessons taught and moments caught.
Of teamwork, grit, and rising tall,
A microcosm of us all.

So here’s to Sundays, brisk and bright,
To Monday nights beneath the light.
The NFL, where stories grow,
Of triumph found in every throw.

A hush blankets the waking earth,
A moment stolen, a time of rebirth.
Whispers fall from a silver sky,
Lacing the world with a soft lullaby.

Each flake dances, a fleeting spark,
A fleeting kiss on the winter’s arc.
They gather, gently, upon the ground,
Muffling life in a quiet profound.

Branches bow under nature’s art,
White lace is woven with a patient heart.
Footprints etch in the fragile skin,
Stories of where the world begins.

The air is sharp, yet sweetly still,
A breath of frost on the windowsill.
Eyes glimmer at the pristine scene,
A fleeting canvas of white serene.

Children laugh where silence reigned,
Snowballs fly, and joy’s unchained.
While elders sip by the warming flame,
Grateful the snowfall still feels the same.

Oh, fleeting beauty, so pure, so shy,
A gift delivered from winter’s sky.
You melt away, as all things do,
Yet leave a memory, tender and true.

Beneath the glow of neon light,
In shadows thick and corners tight,
The pool hall hums with muffled sound,
Where smoky air and dreams abound.

Faded felt on battered slate,
Where strangers meet and seal their fate;
A crack of cue, a soft-ball roll,
A fleeting glimpse of fortune’s goal.

Lines are drawn, the chalk is spun,
Each shot a tale of battles won.
The hustler smiles, his calm disguise,
Concealing schemes behind sharp eyes.

The jukebox croons a song from years,
That mingles with the clink of beers.
Stories shared and rivalries born,
Last long beyond the coming morn.

This sacred space of cue and play,
Where night turns into endless day,
Is more than games, more than a hall—
It’s life reflected in a ball.

Blades carve tales on ice so clear,
A battle fought year after year.
The puck, a traveler swift and sly,
Dances beneath the arena’s sky.

Boards that rattle, crowds that roar,
The heartbeats pound as spirits soar.
Stick to stick, a lightning flash,
Echoes of dreams in each loud clash.

The goalie guards with cat-like grace,
A fortress built in a fleeting space.
The captain leads with fire in sight,
Through triumph’s joy and the struggle’s night.

The ice, a canvas for each team’s art,
Each play a stroke, each goal a heart.
In hockey’s song, where courage sings,
Heroes are crowned on winter’s wings.