Poems Submitted by Our Readers

The house is too quiet,
no laughter or tears,
nowell meaning riot,
to run through the years.

I stand by the bed,
where my small angel sleep's,
thoughts throb through my head,
as my whole body weaps.

The mark on your chest,
the smile on your lips,
the soft toy you loved best,
in your cold finger tips.

My angel you've passed,
to a place I can't be,
but the memories last,
of what you meant to me.


Deborah Ward