DragonBlue• Show poetry

Greetings & Salutations!

I am called MoonChild of GaeaDragonBlue, though some refer to me as DragonBlue or Mz Blue. I have two beautiful daughters, Aspasia Lorraine and Aricia Elizebeth. I reside in Phoenix, Arizona, the coldest city in the world. I have a degree in Business Administration, and I am a Jill of all Trades - Master of Some.

I am a freelance published writer of poetry and articles. In my spare time, I design web pages, learn new software and maintain my Poetry Communities: Poetry Lair of DragonBlue and my MSN Group Dragon Blue's Poetry

My spiritual path travels with the Ancients Ones as a Seeker of Truth. My totem animal is the Grizzly Bear. My spiritual guide and muse is a Blue Dragon and she is often my source of inspiration. So with that said; the following paragraphs are quizzes I have taken that I feel paint a pretty vivid picture of me....

BEAR SPIRIT CALLS TO YOU

~ Bear is spirit keeper of the West, the place of darkness, maturity and good harvest. Bears are active during the night and day. This symbolizes its connection with solar energy, that of strength and power, and lunar energy, that of intuition. The bear holds the teachings of introspection. When it shows up in your life pay attention to how you think, act and interact. Bear's Wisdom Includes:

Introspection, Healing, Solitude, Change, Communication with Spirit, Birth and rebirth, Transformation, Astral travel, Creature of dreams, shamans and mystics, Visionaries, Defense and revenge, and Wisdom.

DRAGON PROFILE

Blue Dragon You love the sea side. You are calm and cool. Don't let that fool you though. You are a real menace when you want to be. You ain't a kiddin, like a puddin!
******************************************************

WHAT POETRY MEANS TO ME

The only aspiration for my poetry; that it touches your soul as my muse has carressed mine. May my words reach you as a poet's voice brings to life a six string guitar...and the Bards of Olde brought their clans histories into colorful, yet powerful legends of times past...

Poetry is not about pretty words. Poetry is about cursing at the government and calling them down for their corrupt power. Telling untold truths, making people aware. It's about screaming for the plight of your people at the top of your lungs, and confessing your sins to everyone who will listen to, or read it...Poetry is expressing your thoughts and feelings on the stupidity of war...Poetry is about Death! Seeking death, hearing death, watching a soul rise out of the body, and wishing death would come to you...It is about the longing of your soul, the baring of your being...the sharing of your PAIN...

Poetry is standing up for what you know to be right and wrong and to champion that which you believe in. To Walk the Walk, not just Talk the Talk. To paint the 'not too pretty' picture between the lines...

that you cross

every time

that line is drawn.

Poetry is NOT just about pretty words.

Poetry is about life! As it really is--Not as it is perceived by those who choose not to acknowledge the natural laws surrounding them. It is about recording our history, it is the VOICE OF THE PEOPLE of this planet, to speak for those who cannot speak for themselves, to defend those who cannot defend themselves and to uphold all we know to be fair and just.

Poetry is Beauty!

Dreams!

Nightmares...

and Beasts;

that all have their place in the balance of polarities.

This is what poetry means to me. With that said, I bid thee farewell...

May ye Walk and Live in Love and Light all of thee life!

Here is a glimpse of mine...
******************************************************

THE COLD WITHIN

Six humans trapped by happenstance, in bleak and bitter cold,
Each one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story is told.
Their dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back,
For of the faces 'round the fire, he noticed one was black.
The next man looking 'cross the way, saw one not of his church,
And couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes, he gave his coat a hitch,
Why should his log be put to use to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,
And how to keep what he had earned from the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from his sight,
For all he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group did naught except for gain,
Giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.
Their logs held tight in death's still hand was proof of human sin,
They didn't die from cold without-they died from the cold within.

--Attributed to James Patrick Kenny
Indianapolis High School Student
******************************************************

Please check out some articles I have written and tell me what you think?

http://www.helium.com/items/955977-cigarette-taxes-states-still

http://www.helium.com/items/804520-entire-changes-priorities-think

http://www.helium.com/items/972391-space-betweenmaliciously-defiles-contempt

http://www.helium.com/items/972405-rememberremember-smile-laugh-tearsas

http://www.helium.com/items/972671-great-rivers-diewhen-ponder

Great Card Offers
******************************************************

Rate this Poem @ GotPoetry.com