The Dragon Flies' Lair~Thread XXI~

June 26, 2005 | bentfeather/Poets of the Lair

[Soaring Feather]

My Dragon Fly and Me

If I could be a Dragon Fly
and wing my way through the sky
I would never be shy
just me and my Dragon Fly!

By moonlight we ride the wind
chase the comets tail for fun
by day we would hide from the sun
our fragile wings would come undone

On darkest nights we would use
fireflies as our guide
we would dip and we would glide
through the heavens open wide
and scatter diamonds in the night sky
my Dragon Fly and me...

And we would wing past our lovers
silent in the night...
to kiss their face in our flight
much to their surprise and delight
my Dragon Fly and me in sight...

Such a view do we share
away up here in the air
of breezes soft through our hair
my Dragon Fly and me a pair...

bentfeather©

[Soaring Feather]

Well said. Thank you.

[WayzataJOHNN]

I just realized that I get to share the award for persistence! My good Lady Wife and I, have been married 34 years today. (Man, how time flies when your sharing fun, illness, lost jobs, bills, bad movies, worse TV shows, odd hair styles, and clothes that seem destine to bring you personal disgrace at any moment.)

[Soaring Feather]

Good morning everyone.

[Soaring Feather]

[Pharmboy]

Click here!!

[Soaring Feather]

Welcome to the Lair.


Thank You, I did click. Most interesting article.

[Darkchylde]

Uuugh... It's still morning.

[Soaring Feather]

Yes, I think so.:-)


How are you??

[Darkchylde]

I'm... good. Bored, as is usual for me. Been waiting
for more rhymes to come to mind (what's new).

How are you?

[Soaring Feather]

I'm well thanks.


Not too, much new, waiting for this dark, damp weather to pass. Are you stuck with the same weather down your way.
It's been hanging around all week.

[Darkchylde]

Well, it was cool & damp yesterday. The sun is shining brightly
today. However, from my point of view sunlight is eeeevil.

[Soaring Feather]

Ah, yes, The Lair's Goth Gal.

You and Radu.

[Darkchylde]

Well, it doesn't help that I can get sun poisoning
in half an hour... WITH sun-block. I'm so talented.

[Soaring Feather]

Oh dear, that is a problem.

[Darkchylde]

Yeah, my dad bought me SPF 50 sunblock... but I haven't used it yet.

[Soaring Feather]

I guess you spend a good share of your time indoors then.

I just get a little sick from a very hot sun. I do enjoy being in the outdoors though. I have a small flower garden I like to putter in. I have lousy soil and even with the use of fertilizer for in ground planting, things don't do well in certain spots.

[Darkchylde]

Yeah, I don't really have anywhere to go anyway.
We have no yard whatsoever, so I can't garden...
otherwise my mom & I would. We had plants
out front, but our neighbor ripped everything
out & told us that was his, the back was ours...
He uses the back too.

[Soaring Feather]

Not a good scene. Is there a porch where you could maybe do some flower pot gardening?? You know tomatoes in pots, etc.

[Darkchylde]

No, the neighbor claims the front porch & our landlord
has ripped apart our back porch. We're not even allowed
to hang up bird feeders, he has his workers rip them down.
They throw everything around.

[Soaring Feather]

A little encouragment to stir the muse.


Memory

A PEN--to register; a key--
That winds through secret wards
Are well assigned to Memory
By allegoric Bards.

As aptly, also, might be given
A Pencil to her hand;
That, softening objects, sometimes even
Outstrips the heart's demand;

That smooths foregone distress, the lines
Of lingering care subdues,
Long-vanished happiness refines,
And clothes in brighter hues;

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works
Those Spectres to dilate
That startle Conscience, as she lurks
Within her lonely seat.

Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast,
In purity were such,
That not an image of the past
Should fear that pencil's touch!

Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene,
Age steal to his allotted nook
Contented and serene;

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain rivers, where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening.

William Wordsworth, (1823)