POETRY cont.
These poems are from my newest work; a mixture of Christian, Whimsicle, Archaic and Gothic flavored morsels for your enjoyment.
        WHEN ALL IS STILL

After midnight, when all is still,
And I am in my dreams,
Through the aging windowsill
Music wafting; so it seems,
Far away and ethereal.

My mind asks my soul
If what I hear is real,
Or only surreal?
Non-existant windchimes ring,
Magical laughter they do bring.
So light and so airy,
The song of the faerie
Calls to me.

Elementals and sprites ~
Wee elves, trolls and nymphs,
Dance just beyond mortal fingertips.

Hidden amongst violets,
Stones; covered with moss,
They bid me come play with them.
'Twould be my loss
If I should refuse,
Shy away or refrain
To dance with the faeries,
'Neath the water-colored rain.

(c) 2006 Joy Harber
               LIKE A SPARROW

Subdued ~
Small and dull,
Of no consequence,
Yet on the crabapple branch; come spring,
She can sing.

She has nothing ~
No home to call her own,
No gold or riches,
Not a thing,
Yet ,on that flowering branch,
Listen to her sing.

Amid the pink and perfumed beauty,
Blooming all around her,
Her music rings.
She can't contain it any longer,
And so she sings.

And in the doing
Of what she was created for,
She is spectacular.

(c) 2006 Joy Harber
                 WICKED COLD

'Tis wicked cold in this place,
There is no light,
I see no face.
Devoid of time, devoid of space,
'Ti wicked cold in this place.

There was a time when I knew love,
Grass below, sky above,
But now there's naught that can erase,
'Tis wicked cold in this place.

I had a chance, but walked away,
Turned up my nose,
Thought God would wait,
No time had I,
No chance, no faith.
'Tis wicked cold in this place.

It was my choice to turn away,
To ever seperate from God's face,
I have eternity to contemplate,
'Tis wicked cold in this place.

(c)2006 Joy Harber
               MIDNIGHT

Moon, rising full.
Clouds try to shroud
It's power to beckon
Night's children.

Nocturnal angels ~
Souls who crave night;
Who dance within the darkness, bright.
Shadows welcome they,
Into sacred rite.

Gone by dawn,
Death's sweet sleep.
By curse they are drawn,
To sow and to reap
Life's gathering essence.

Hiding by day,
Disappearing from sight,
Waiting patiently,
'Till the time is right,
To strike.

Predator's Bride,
Enchanting but feral,
Look yon to the moon,
For the secret is real,
Hear it calling,
Calling to thee.

Midnight beckons,
It beckons to me.

(c) 2006 Joy Harber
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