In between my sunsets and sunrises I visit other lands Where life is always grand And love is never planned I dwell happy in those nether regions Where beauty is a prayer That ensnares the fain and fair And scares away the mares Thus I pursue the middles of the night And the dearth of piddles And live instead with riddles That diddle and twiddle It is my escape from rhymes and reasons In the seasons made prime By all thoughts inside my clime Suspicious of crime and grime I find peace inside my schemes Which nurture inside my dreams DVWG Poet Sam Nichols

Not atoll ! DVWG Poet Daniel Kuttner

The Buddha on the front porch is clean. Of late, I have been caught In the whirlwind of frenetic energy surrounding The start of a new school year, Hurriedly writing down the words That will later be offered to my students In hopes that they will realize how poetry is, As Frost said, "a momentary stay against confusion," A comfort in the midst of chaos, An opportunity for the mind to rest and reflect. With back-to-school activities following close On the heels of end-of-summer activities, I have deferred my usual maintenance routine. In those weeks of neglect, The Buddha has continued to sit patiently Collecting grass clippings, weed seeds, Cobwebs and cat hair, Growing a bit grimier each day But still greeting the mail carrier And Jehovah's Witnesses With his serene smile, hands Nestled together, right palm atop left. I broke the quiet Saturday morning air With the sound of power mower and edger, Then marched through quickly With the leaf blower, clearing the porch And swirling all the detritus away While the Buddha continued to sit, Unmoved by it all. Namaste. DVWG Poet S. Kay Murphy

“[God] has made everything beautiful in its time. Also He has put eternity in their hearts, except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end.” Ecclesiastes 3:11 I went for a walk on this cool spring day, Stopping by our lizard my respects to pay As he warmed himself up on our house wall, Then lifted my eyes hearing heaven’s call, Was transported by the cloudy array Gracing the skies (a glorious display!) Then set off to get some sun and fresh air And was blessed by God’s beauty everywhere! The fragrance of roses greeted my nose And trees in full bloom were ready to pose For my camera, which I could not contain But kept pulling out some beauty to frame. Though most of my neighbors have manicured lawns, It’s not far to where untamed nature dawns. Along the backroad of our neighborhood Mustard plants reaching my eye-level stood, Cat tails were rampant in both green and tan And yellow flowered weeds everywhere ran. In springtime there’s beauty, even in weeds, Which, if I stop to look, my spirit feeds. They gave the roadsides a bright yellow glow Which caused me to pause and my pace to slow So I could examine individually Their beauty which God created for me. And my heart was struck by this truth sublime: God makes all things beautiful in His time! DVWG Guest Poet Alison Sanders

Come away with me, my love, To a place of quiet repose and peace, To a place where hearts beat as one, To a place where breaths are heard. Come away with me, my love, To a place where our minds speak the same, To a place where our fingers intertwine, To a place where sighs are heard. Come away with me, my love, To a place where we can lay our heads, To a place where our souls fly together, To a place where laughter is heard. Come away with me, my love. DVWG Poet Lynette Tucker

The turkey-buzzard sits low against the dead and rotting oak, waiting and watching, as dry grass shrivels in the heat. Summer fills the valley cutting like a sword. Water drips slowly, falling onto hollowed rock, providing small relief for birds as they gather to discuss the oppressive, searing heat. Clouds push and grow against the mountains, forcing distant thunder as the air becomes heavy. The Sun—white hot, passes slowly beyond the hills, dropping the valley into shadow, bringing rest but no relief. Days pass and all that remains is the heat. DVWG Poet Greg B. Porterfield

When it rained, I used to sit by the window and watch the cars pass by If I was lucky my cat, Striker, would come and sit on my lap I always cherished those moments as the world seemed to daunting then It seemed like I could jump over whatever hurdle was in my way I fully believe I never would have gotten where I am today without those quiet moments. And now I’m here in this moment, once again with you Though it's not raining, and your not on my lap Now, I don't sit by the window when it rains anymore. DVWG Poet Aedan Von Weckmann

I look for treasures here and there But luck eludes each baited quest And leaves so little time for rest Hoping to find that which is rare I journey far within my mind Seeking notions outlined in kind Like an ancient carved maple chair I stand proudly while others speak Of that which they alone may seek Or a locket of Helen’s hair Legended to be ensconced in pearl When once the sea did rise and swirl I would wear with elated flair Those treasures from the briny deep Which man covets but cannot keep DVWG Poet Sam Nichols

My synonym for love is an empty library By empty, I mean full but untouched By full, I mean intact but internally crushed Your carpet is a river, Noone’s around to bathe in Your shelves hold secrets, Sitting songbirds of wisdom I could compare you to a prison, The books would be the captives I would gladly be your inmate, But the fact is... Miles are between us, And no compass can compete You’re bound to this spot, Stairs planted on concrete Two stories worth of stories Novels written by nobodys And I just want to be your somebody Not a classic case of Sense & Sensibility “Proximity” is the best word since “insensitivity” So surely there’s a map that’ll lead you to me With a big red X painted in blood That’s IRON FOR YOU Four letters scribbled in the legend, “I yearn for you” Follow the flock of hot-air balloons, And soon enough, you’ll know where For anyone can see, a place like you, Doesn’t belong in the middle of nowhere Your walls don’t talk, they whisper, Your shelves don’t take, they give Filled with books waiting to be read, An encyclopedia of reasons to live Let me borrow one and sift through its pages Even if I only last the prologue, Love, you stand alone like you’ve been standing here for ages DVWG Poet Abigail Handojo

(Inspired by Downtown Laguna Beach) In my dreams, I soar through cerulean-blue skies, streaked with paintbrush strokes of cream-white clouds that unspool like bolls of cotton. I hear the soft rumble of ocean waves, as light shimmers on facets of cobalt crystal water, while waves pad against powdered bisque sands, scattered with shell fragments like broken porcelain. I meander across well-worn sidewalks, where a bounty of art surrounds me, from brightly-painted benches that burst with the colors of summer flowers, to towering sea life sculptures that suspend time. I let myself absorb into the chattering crowds, dodging the shopping bags that bounce against knees and guard store-purchased treasures, feeling breezes that blow gauze-scarves like pennants. Yet, when I wake from my dreams, I will be seventeen before I first see the shore, and four years older still before a kiss in the saffron-glow light of an oceanside sunset with the man later I married, my lifetime reminders that imagining can be a first footprint into truth. DVWG Guest Poet Erin Schalk

So, you want to know the Poet. Seeking inspiration for poem or verse, you yearn for secrets of the craft. Poets, you’ll discover, are such a stingy lot. Shuffling each line with clumsy words that seldom fit, ‘til producing a harmony only they can hear. Moving each verse, again and again, they push and pull to fit the frame and squeeze each word ‘til it makes a sound. At the coffeehouse, they never order latte. Picking a corner table just to sit alone, armed with pen and a steaming mug of Joe, they write as their drink grows bitter and cold. Poets are untidy and wear disguises. Often hiding beneath a mustache or a hat, clothing draped in colored beads, with eyes hidden beneath dark glasses. A Poet is a lonely dreamer. Wild eyed, staring blankly into space, searching each word for meaning, confused by convoluted verse. Poets always misuse language. They bend and break the rules with short lines and phrases, obscuring the meaning, as a tool. Poets are certainly simple folk. Humming tunes that fill their heads, they waste their lives on silly rhyme no sane person wants or needs. Poets are really a shiftless lot. Wasting time in parks, bookstores and libraries, they scribble senseless phrases, filling page after page in their tiny books. You’ll find Poets are a poor lot. They vanish quickly over time, leaving words for lonely singers, brokenhearted lyrics that rhyme. No, they are not worth knowing. Just forget them if you can, these sullen, shiftless souls we call Poets. DVWG Poet Greg B. Porterfield

Flying above the morning dawn I'm looking for my shadow not yet do I perceive what often eludes me I am searching for the sky amongst the clouds up above I look for dandelions to blow sweet seeds across the horizon is it green or is it cold is it real or is it Memorex you can’t compare must be an echo worship worship worship The wheels are turning on a dry ocean the dregs of sand fill my casket I feel like a fish on land take me home to Atlantis and back again what's real what's not real I cannot find it I'm still looking for my shadow below the deep come with me and fly upon the sea I’ve been there before Worship worship worship holding grandma’s shriveled hand finger nails perfect that’s all I have left of her holding babies tiny finger tiny hand holding fast my pinkie Grip the memory It may never be there again worship worship worship the Bradford Stained glass window in the town of York in Great Britain my sanctuary shattered in the war paupers pulled their pennies together to rebuild the cathedral window is it real is it replaced is it refurbished…yes the sun shines through again as does my shadow worship worship worship the sky is green the grass is blue my memory fulfills despite my fleeting shadow DVWG Guest Poet Leticia Garcia Bradford