Biography of Charlotte Ballard
Writing is the journey.
Charlotte Ballard's Works:
Her Highness the Radiant Dyke Deborah from Canada
Charlotte Ballard Poems
My Only Song
Man of Sorrow Man of Pain You took it all Without any gain.
To Emily Dickinson
Emily, your words breathe fire. From simple words to grand designs- Heaven drops, sweet nectar. I propose a promise
A Mother's Day Poem
My mother keeps a poem That I wrote when I was More than a child, but Not yet a Woman.
Just now, Michael spoke Not from courage Nor from hope. 'I'm dying, ' he says
Writer In Training
I work the books As if knowing the Words could somehow Translate into
You Come Too
You Come Too I'm going to write a poem now, a little thing- Not much to it. A line, a verse, a meter
Taps are being played In the middle of me To say good-bye To that part that
I don't have much That I can claim- Just an old brush With half the bristles gone,
Ode To Pizza
You delight the nose with evocative Promise of stringy cheese, pepperoni And tomato sauce warm. Each piece Contested over, grabbed, hungered over
I Never Had A Mother
I never had a mother Who read “Hello Moon” Fifty-seven times before Tossing it behind the refrigerator
Washing dishes is like Waiting for roses to bloom. Roses blooming never wait For washed dishes.
(inspired by Stubborn Students) Locked doors Closed windows
My Lying Fault
That a child mixed a broken breed Purposely denied her own fault In it. I did not cry wolf out to My Lagging defenders, nor know that
I watch as a slim Young man, dressed in Tweeds and patches on the Elbows, squats down with a handful of
Black Cat guards the top of my computer
Smiles gently as eyes are closed
Bought at half price at a shelter
Crowded with cousins needing homes.
She celebrates her supremeness and her beauty
By knocking my drink into my keyboard.