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    March 31

    LeGabriel: A face in the Mirror

     

    A face in the Mirror

     

    When I look in the mirror

    I see someone looking back and wonder,

    is it the same someone everyone else sees.

    For the face seems to change every time I look.

    Sometimes the eyes looking back at me do seem to be

    the face I think must belong to someone other than me.

    Especially when the face I see

    seems so much prettier than me.

    Sometimes the person in the mirror

    seems so very far away,

    a visitor from another time,

    some other place,

    and I hope it is me.

    Sometimes the eyes look so much more wise

    than I know I am,

    sometimes happier, sadder,

    but never do I see the face everyone else seems to see.

    I may see a monster, an angel,

    or princess from another world.

    But do I ever see,

    have I ever seen,

    me?

     
     
    February 17

    LeGabriel:As an Eagle

    clip_image002

    As An Eagle

     

    God gave me wings that I might fly

    high above forest and field,

    high above man.

    I want to watch the world as it slowly turns,

    ever changing,

    day into night,

    night into day,

    so far below me.

    With my wings I will soar,

    high over land and sea,

    watching all that takes place,

    far below me.

    Guarding all life,

    enjoying everything.

    God gave me wings

    that I might fly,

    so all who see me,

    may have hope and peace.

     

    January 20

    Legabriel: Who I am

     

    Ah, the written word. It is much more poignant than spoken.  It brings to mind a love letter from a secret admirer.  A long stem rose.  A solitary walk on the beach.  Various moments of thought and feelings!

    Making his debut is Washington poet, Legabriel.  His prose is a soft whisper in my mental shadows.  enjoy!  Red lips

     

    who am I

    words, just words
    I sit here and gather them up
    like flowers and jewels
    but from where do they come
    and why
    who am I that they come to me
    make themselves so ready
    so available for play
    why do they fold and twirl and become something so magic in my mind
    words, they are just words
    aren't they?
    Who am I that whispers turn them into butterflies
    and raindrops,
    paint that transforms a blank page into a work of art.
    A song, simple piece of music
    wraps itself around me
    draws upon me
    uses the words I gathered and shows me what to do
    fills me with all I need
    to create the works they demand.