They call me Alaurilee

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I've been writing poetry from the age of 12. It has, and always will be my outlet, my voice. Join me on my journey . . . I can write about almost anything. :) ~ Life doesn't come with a shiny new book; no users manual of answers to find with one look. Life comes with doors that open and shut; and paths laid before us to be followed or passed up. There's things we can learn and things we may teach; hearts that may find us and souls we may reach. Guaranteed on this journey are teacups of tears; and pains that might hurt us may age us by years. But the beauty of life, love, laughter and giving; come from serving hugs on a platter each and every day we're living. ~

Saturday, October 16, 2010

I'm Here

You take these shots every other week,
in the hopes of some remission.
The war it fights inside your body
forces you into submission.

Not everyone sees the pain I see.
They don't know how hard you try.
Not everyone sees the tears that fall
when the pain and fears make you cry.

You rest your weary head on my lap.
I run my fingers through your hair.
Softly soothing the nerves of pain.
Showing you comfort and care.

Every day the clock ticks on
and all the pain takes a toll.
I don't know how much time we have left,
but I'm blessed to know my role.

I'm here to hear your thoughts and fears,
I'm here to share your heart.
I'm here to dance our way through love,
two souls who vow to never be apart.

I'm here to love you so completely,
through moments of love and laughter.
I'm here to love you heart and soul,
from now until 'forever after'.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Poinsettia Jeanette

She's eighty-five, yet her beauty
still reminds one of Liz Taylor.
With pretty, dark, Italian hair
and gorgeous skin so pretty and fair.

Her early years spent in Washington,
the land of D.C. was her home.
She entertained during World War Two
and played the accordion in the USO too.

A little saying well know back then,
"Jeanette rides the bus, you should too!".
With her picture posted on the side,
she graced the D.C. Metrobus ride.

Remember the year the winter was warm,
yet a blizzard was everywhere else?
She prettied her hair up a bit,
and put a rosy red color upon her lip.

In the botanical gardens, her friend took a picture
for the front page of the Washington Post.
Jeanette and poinsettia's in a pretty pose,
right beside a picture of blizzard snow that rose.

One day the time came for family and love
and Sal was the man who won her heart.
Steve, Paul and Vince were their boys.
They brought laughter and a houseful of toys.

Time has passed and more than fifty years later
we watch as your memory slowly fades away.
We fill your life with hugs and "I love you's",
and play games of rummy to chase away the blues.

Our dear sweet Mom we want you to know,
forever your memories will live and breath.
We cherish your stories and each blessed day,
and deep inside our hearts you will never go away.


I wrote this for my dear friend from twitter, @SteveGrim.

I wrote it based on some personal info I gathered from Steve about his Mom's life. His mother, Jeanette, is battled Alzheimers, and is already at a stage where she doesn't remember all of her stories. I made this in memory of everything she was and is, and for her sons who love her dearly and cherish every moment they are blessed with.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Accidentally Happy

Who left the door open?
Do you feel that breeze?
As it wraps around my soul
I feel a gentle squeeze.

What I thought was wind;
what I thought was air;
blew itself around me
and tousled up my hair.

I didn't understand at first.
The truth evaded me.
I had floated alone so long
lost in the open sea.

But one day I saw land
and built myself a house.
Then I still felt lonely
so I made friends with a mouse.

I gave the mouse some cheese.
It gave me company.
It opened a door of happiness
deep inside of me.

A window of hope and love
in a time of a dark.
A door opened to happiness
through a moonlit park.

It something that sneaks up.
You rarely see it arrive.
But accidentally leave open a door
and watch happiness come inside.


From a prompt from my dear friend @just1heather . . .

"Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn't know you left open"
~ John Barrymore

Posted at dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night Week 14

Magic Wand

Walking through the streets one night
I found a magic wand.
I took it home to my sweet man
and wished his Crohn's "Be gone!"

Went next door to see his mom,
waving my wand as I gave her a hug.
I said, "M.S. legs, walk again!"
and watched as she danced on the rug.

I wished alive my friend Renee
so I could tell her good-bye.
One last hug to feel warm skin,
and to wipe Cancers tear from her eye.

I wished good health upon the sick
and healing upon the broken.
I wished the best for everyone
with words of hope that were spoken.

I took a trip to India
and walked in Ghandi's skin.
Waved my wand at everyone
A wish of peace, for we're all kin.

I waved my wand and gave a hug
of peace to even strangers.
For in a world of love and peace
there are no real dangers.

I went back to that very street
returning the wand where it found me.
Leaving it there for someone else
for the magic was now inside me.

From: @promptswriting
Sent: Oct 1, 2010 6:45p

What would you do if you found in the street a real magic wand?

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Gifted Moments

We sometimes stumble over fears
of one day losing you.
This Crohn's monster is known to make us blue.

I see your tears flow softly
from the corner of your eye.
I know the fight inside you makes you sigh.

Are you dying my love?
Are you slowly fading away?
Will you lose your fight one day?

We shake them off one by one,
thoughts and fears that paralyze,
then we wipe the tears from our eyes.

I hold you and I sooth you.
I shower you with comfort and love.
I lift my prayers to him up above.

And we give thanks for all of this.
Every gifted moment means so much.
And we savor each and every touch.

And, we will dream and we'll believe.
We'll hold hands until were ninety-two.
And we'll hug away the moments that we're blue.

Because . . .
It's what we do . . .