Rhythm and Poetry

I’ve seen those tough as oaks

weep like willows

even the hardest thugs can have tear stained pillows

most can’t see the forest for the trees

Rising Stars: New Young Voices in Poetry

A poem in which I am growing.


A poem in which I am a tree,

And I am both appreciated and undervalued.


A poem in which I fear I did not dig into the past,


A plant called love
A plant called hate

I grew them both 
in my garden.
The plant called love was hard work.