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Tides' of Time

Iris Grey alle Mann’s eyes

Shall he stand or falter

Anger lost is never found

Until he’s lost his ‘halter’, unsound?

In hindsight he might sigh

or say it didn’t matter either way

To be greatness bound is no small thing yet he may

fall upon his ‘please’.


Not a temporary kneeling either if he goes down at another’s behest it won’t be so neat.


He smolders, is not driven, but fearless, his pride, cold, one of secret purpose


The momentum of his passion will be his embers glow

until he’s lost control and grows volatile then he’ll burn the heavens rows.


Heaven?  He’d laugh at one’s presumption, and with a congratulatory nod to himself, would believe he was the better, and all the rest of us just simple fools.


Despite his fiery temper it is not blight I think he carries.


He is the reaper that burns at harvest’s end, to remove the diseased and dreary, to make way for newest growth, so tender shoots can show their heads with sturdy roots  instead.


Tis neither good nor bad unless he wrecks a “Hybrid” crop.  

For daylight surely needs darkness as companion’s end.


Perhaps it is the Sinister Spin that requires the blackest mate, I do not know the answer, I don’t answer it’s his fate.


His darkness shows a sinister glow, and army scarred in fear, and yet his conquest seems righteous yet not to those so nere’.


On pathways of destruction lead by dark horseman’s truest mount, forward march indeed he’ll plow, a supersonic wave, perhaps eclipse the speed of sound and find the ‘better’ way.


His white horse alas forgotten, deemed a worthless steed, he missed the point entirely, it wasn’t the steed indeed, but the woman to hold the reigns’ of a team over 1800 head strong...


Good thing I persevered...

you don’t appreciate being alive and well, and you never will.


To prosper in a gin mill one mustn’t light his amber seal in haste, for his bluest flame will meet the ‘spirits’ and he’ll risk incinerating  fate. 


The woman who held the reigns’ is no stranger to blue flame, for her flame burns blue in lowest oxygen, a stranger legacy I couldn’t say.


This alchemist knew when you thought she was easily malleable, but forever the adventurer and scientist, was fool…enough to weight and  sea bluest flame or blackest soot.


In the end she went down in flames, but she burned with truest heme, she hopes your amber seal burns true too.  


But one thing is for certain, she is a friend and really keen, she’s not just phosphorescent blue but a tripatriot thrice heme.

by Mary Margaret Park

glitter glass

silicone sand

measuring amber hours


this shapely beauty

with bosom poised

above the endless deep


while seconds spill

into her slippers

she’s laughing at the dawn


for mortal man

she has no sorrow 

yet endless are her tears


spilling sand

her waist dwindles

measuring hours end


glitter glass

silicone sand





The wind....

          a blue streak       intersecting 

    today and


       a hint

      a suggestion

      a notion


an exchange

   between friends...                          and lovers


a whispered echo


          and bittersweet

     In the Tulip of his    Arms

     the World Opens


 The Horizon a Mere                   Illusion


     the endless  



  Are the storms          

        Intemperate edge

   And the Calm of its                      Passing...


   The Axis  

        and the Eye of                      Spring



      are Perpetual


     Exquisitely                                Radiant

                     Woven gold

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