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About This Author
 Writing poetry allows me to exercise my imagination and share it with others. I strive to write for the benefit of the reader using carnival fun mirror images of my life's experiences.
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My cards are speaking Cherokee, Not a phrase I understand, The same is true of my backyard, In my dreams a distant land. There's a place to cry for Mother, There's a place to cry for dad, One corner holds the closest thing, To romance I ever had. A garden made for everything, My affection might've been, The terrain lies dark and barren, No sown seed has yet to win. However, I plant carefully, Any flower strong and wild, Naught but weeds have ever grown, For the man that's his own child. As if the scourge of happiness, A rabbit sits still as stone, It's gaze transfixed as if to say, "You'll forever be alone." An adage I've always heard, That a garden's glory is dirt, Head and heart held up in sun, Would resolve a world of hurt. So I'll endure and persevere, To deep plow and plant the soil, Until the day a seed makes way, And rewards my earnest toil. (28 Lines)
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