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The stream (all workshops)

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Of What Shall I Write?

shall I write of trees?
gorgeous, as foreground or backdrop
to visions of life
fueling imagination
and heartfire

or write of the sea?
drowning one in depth
of emotion and tears
hoping to add one more drop
to its enormity

or shall I write of the sky?
whew! the view!
endless endless endlessly
to leave you draining
into a puddle of

terminal velocity

Drenched in heavy morning rain
Like an arctic soaking to the vein;
I just sat there stunned and wordless,
by the results of endless tests.

Only do I seek the scoffer's sympathy;
my litanies dot the bottom of this timpani.
No restaurant on high street offers...
Whoa! I found where my sanity rests:

A very comforting hand takes mine,
The other hand by her child as well.
I draw dry ice sculptures in my mind,
While a hawk’s screech rings overhead.

poems get long

poems get long
nobody’s fault but the poet's

who sings lyrics
with a half full pen for company
a loaded gun for support

gazing into a future no one else
may see
Russian roulette, the only game in town --

as words flow with percussion ease
tapped out while clock ticks beyond
its moments

on long road of living with ideas
searching for lost phrases
poet thinks are new
like they are his or hers alone

No Cure for Passion

You stream through my veins

your words an elixir
soothing and razing
my blood in chorus

holding me spellbound;


in the sweetest pain
of undeniable necessity

would you withhold
my passionate cacophony

force a bitter resolve of
awkward discontent?

please, do not wander
too far away.

© Tonya Greenlee

another letter from Home

I feel your hopeless, endless grieving
and both our journeys you impede
there's reason in your remaining quick
and now, I with you, gently plead
to forgive me, let me go, allow me
move on and do what I have to do
my purpose over there is finished
apart, that is, from my love for you



He mourns the youth once owned
the smooth tanned skin , 
eyes so blue and dreamy, they could melt 
a thousand hearts. 

He longs for the taught muscular frame and
well defined chest that made,
grown women weep.

But youth has flown and left in it's stead an imposter.
Thinning hair greying at the temples.
Skin now lined and puckered.

Eyes still bright behind glasses. 
Oh he calls to  youth, but it has fled.


On a night
That lingering silence
Imprisons me

The only hope I know
Can be found in a pen
That soothes my
Weary mind

Angels walking alongside me
Trying to savor an ounce of euphoria
Before I face the devil himself

No cars or pedestrians
Only a whispering wind
Telling me to reconsider
But this war must be waged

The city lights turned off
As the moon offers light
To my aching soul

A Collection of Sorrows, Part Three.

And I will die alone, in a field somewhere
Organs and bloody bones, will decompose with hair
So why should I try to love?
What would be good for me?
I could channel all my rage, into a pit of despair
And I will drag on, till my toes catch fire
And I won’t be tempted by such evils as desire

So come, take me home, but I don’t know where
Just leave me here, and I will learn
That love can’t be made, it must be earned
And most things are not meant to be
But some things are, you must believe

A Collection of Sorrows, Part Two.

Hear me, hear me, cry, I swear to god I can see
All of the things that I have done wrong
I wish I could repent and that you could fix me
I would sing such glory repeated in songs

The things I know I can never forget
The heart I held but could never get
The strings of hearts and the marionettes that pull
The fire that claimed my beating heart
The strangers that walked me home from jail

A Collection of Sorrows, Part One.

I am the broken man who stands lighting his torch
My day was dead and my love was gone
There was no one around and no one to feel
All the things that I felt all the misgivings real

I was broken last night in the eyes of temptation
The light was burnt out and I feel lamentation
I don’t know why I did what I did
But it’s been done, so let me live


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