Okay!

I'll join!

Yeah, I'll join! I'll write a poem today-tomorrow, then when I'm able to post again on Saturday, I'll submit it!

I'm so glad you started this up again! My poem is about me making a secret message by staining a paper with a tea bag and leaving it in the hopes that someone would discover it and believe in magic. I didn't do that (or not that I remember), but it is TOTALLY something I would have done when I was little. 

BELIEVING 

I stained the paper 

with a wet oolong teabag

sad and grey,

never living it’s purpose. 

I doubt it was honored 

that I left it

on the sink edge 

dripping enough to

moisten the paint splatters below,

red and blue,

bursts of colors 

that never completed 

their goal in life, 

overflows that never 

kissed paper;

never ran

along its wrinkled edges,

never pooling in 

unnecessary blots

by the untamed paintbrush,

its mane of wavy bristles

a vessel floating

in a sea of red and blue

touched by sunset. 

If they could speak,

these never-used objects,

would they complain?

The tea bag would want

to be steamed in boiling water

its membrane of hazy skin

lazily floating. 

Instead, I know it is angry

because it is forgotten,

never understanding,

never watching 

as I arranged stained paper

among crushed leaves and bark

crackling under bare feet 

excitedly, wondering,

just wondering, 

what I was up to 

because maybe,

just maybe, 

I was taking a dream of mine

and twisting it,

patting it, gluing it,

patching it, 

until finally it became someone else’s

whose fingers brushed the paper

tentatively, looking, reading

and finally believing in ancient messages

from other worlds. 

The teabag did not know this,

it lay dripping, brooding, 

because I was believing again

in books whose paper

never went to waste. 

Descriptions 

You sit down next to me,

but you're looking up

at the sky. 

Your

dark brown hair

is tousled, windblown,

a thoughtful smile

gracing your lips. 

"Hey."

I return

the greeting, my pupils

following your

line of sight

to where a

hawk sits,

(I think it's

a hawk, anyway—

you're the expert on

animals)

upon a telephone wire,

beak upturned

at the sun,

light glancing off of

its brown-sheened

feathers. 

"Isn't it. . ." You begin,

but trail off,

fixated

on its strong,

muscled shape,

built for flying.

I admire its wings

as it spreads them,

the shadows

rippling through.

"Yes,"

I say,

because it is.

It is everything you do not say.

You do not say

Bold

Beautiful

Strong

Free

because to say

just one

would be to say

too little.

I finally think of an

appropriate adjective

as it stretches its pinions,

and leaps up,

alighting on Zephyr's moist breath—

wind-warm and soft,

into the blackberry sweet sky.

"Magic." 

I'll join!

~Faeries and girls~

A fay! 

Foolish thing! 

A fay!

Could it be? 

A girl.

Foolish girl.

Such a wonderous thing, no?

One of them wee folk,

beware.

If you step into a fay ring,

you're as good as gone,

you may ne'er come back again.

~~

You may ne'er come back again!

You're as good as gone!

If you step into a fay ring,

beware!

One of them wee folk,

such a wonderous thing.

No!

A girl!

Foolish girl!

A fay.

Foolish thing,

a fay. 

Ooh, okay! I loved the last two contests!

It's Magic

When we're together

We're like two birds of a feather

When we're torn apart

I swear, it's breaking my heart

When you say hello

My whole mind's aglow

When you say goodbye

It feels like I could die

This pain, this desire

This love, this burning fire

It's tearing me apart, it's tragic

It's magic 

*clears throat* My poem.

Seeing Isn't Believing

'Seeing is believing'--

At least,

That's what they say.

But of course, 

There's always more

Than what

Meets the eye.

Magic is everywhere.

It's in our

Bones,

Spirits,

And hearts,

and it floats in the air,

But it isn't always

Visible. 

When a bird sings,

The magic in it's soul

Brightens ours,

And the magic flys away

On gossamer wings.

The world is magical.

You just need to believe. 

Hidden Magic

---------------- 

You warily push your way

Through the bushes

As you look around

You didn't mean to come here-

Just something seemed to pull you, urge you  

Forward

Suddenly the bushes give way, and you stumble

Falling flat on your face

You push yourself back up, and gasp

In front of you is a perfect circle

Of dark purple violets

A sweet tune fills your ears

Tinkling, flowing, inviting you forward

Your eyes open wide and

You turn and run

Then as you stop for breath, a familiar tune

Starts up

You look around in belief

You're still there

It seems to drag you backward, no matter how

Hard you resist

Finally you give up and let it pull you into the circle

Then it stops abruptly, and the flowers wilt

You whirl around and run in fear, not caring or wanting to know

What just happened 

Later, in your room, you empty your pockets

A paper wad,

Your pocketknife,

A few sticks and leaves you collected

Your pocketknife is metal.

Could it be- fairies?

You shake your head in amusement.

Hah. Fairy tales. No way are you believing that.

But still-

----- 

Oh, sorry, I forgot about this! And now it's on the second page! Well, the winner is... 

Abigail S. with her Descriptions poem! And the runner up is...

Clouded Leopard with her It's Magic poem! Okay, Abigail S. can choose the new subject.