Latest 5 Poems of Roann Mendriq
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(5/23/2013 5:04:00 AM)
Weaving golden memories,
in the spindle of my mind;
Adrift upon a silken breeze,
of patchwork so designed.
I lose my thread of errant thought;
with every stitch I drop;
And find the memory I sought,
till panic slows to stop.
Busy at my memory loom,
I weave myself some laughter;
As an intricate costume,
for a happily ever after.
I start to smile in reverie,
at life's quirky little riches;
Chuckling soft inside of me,
I find myself in stitches.
Tangled in the silken skeins,
I pause and use my skill;
To break free from the chains,
To stop myself unravel.
A tranquil tapestry arises,
it comes from who knows whence;
Cross stitch scolds, chastises,
Blanket stitch, a reminiscence.
Embroidery at this juncture,
in everything I do;
Is a parrallel acupuncture,
of an applique of you.
(4/18/2013 3:12:00 AM)
I love to watch the rain, fall in big fat shiny drops,
I love to know its helping grow, every farmer's crops;
I love to hear it thunder, and roar loudly as it pours,
I love to feel it wet my face, my cheeks, my eyes, my nose!
I love to sit on window sills, and sip hot chocolate milk,
and watch the rain wash shiny leaves, like velvet watered silk;
I love brown muddy puddles, I jump and they go 'splash! ',
And every night I love it, when the lightning starts to flash;
I love the smell of fresh washed earth, I love the cool crisp breeze,
When it rains, it's Heaven on earth, as God waters all His trees...
(4/17/2013 6:49:00 AM)
India is a patch-work, of every single hue,
Vibrant reds and ochres, and pensive shades of blue;
Skeins of gold light up the sky, when the sun wakes up each morn,
The heavens weave a tapestry, of a glittering brand new dawn;
Gilded pink and shimmering peach, the clouds weave in their lace,
India is spun golden, in the sun's new morning rays;
At noon the sun is up and bright, the ocean is sun kist;
Villages and towns bask in, a gilt-edged white hot mist;
Paddy fields and valleys, reflect the golden green,
While ribbons of grey roads, mere wisps of silvery sheen;
As twilight spins her burnished spool, on the fabric whirling high,
A dusky lilac, wine red sky, breathes out a drawn out sigh;
As night enfolds my country, with her quilt of deep, dark blue,
The Master weaver gently smiles, from vantage His point of view.