Pat Mora

“My SongSo many memories,and I'm still young.So many dreams, my song's just begun. Sometimes I hearmy private melody grow,then the sound vanishes,but returns, I now know. I've heard my heart break;wounded, I've felt alone,but slowly I learnedto thrive on my own.I want to keep learning, to depend my song;in whatever I work may my best self grow strong.It's still the morning,the green spring of my life.i'm starting my journey,family and friends at my side,my song inside, and love as my guide.My family wonderswhere I will go.I wonder too. I long to discover how to protect the earth, our home,hear world sisters and brothers, who feel so alone.Hearts and hands opento those close and those far,a great family circlewith peace our lodestar.No child should be hungry.All children should read,be healthy and safe,feel hope, learn to lead.It's still the morning,the spring of my lifeI'm starting my journey,family and friends at my side,my song inside,and love as my guide. I'm take wrong turnsand again lose my way.I'll search for wise answers, listen, study and pray.So many memories, and I'm still young.So many dreams; my own song has begun.I'll resist judging othersby their accents and skin,confront my life challenges, improve myself within.Heeding my song-for life's not easy or fair-I'll persist, be a lightresist the snare of despair. Mysteriously,I've grown to feel strong.I'm preparing to lead.I'm composing my song.It's still the morning,the spring of my life.I'm starting my journey, family and friends at my side,my song inside, and love as my guide.”

“Mysterious My paper shinesWhite, like snow, but the paper looks empty.I could decorate itwith tiny spidersor stars or sketches of melooking at a blank page,but the clock ticks,and somehow I must write.I like the sight of untouched snow.Gentle, slow, silent,it drifts and swirls, layers itself, and I seea new world of mysterious,inviting shapes. I walk in its whitewhispers, susurrus.I driftback to this paper that feelshard on the disk, and I beginto listen-to the story I tell myself.The paper is a white, patient place,my private spacefor remembering,saving: spring sun on my faceventing and inventing,arguing with my mother,wondering: who am I,wandering through cobwebs of old dreams,crying, sighing at people who don't see me, hoping to write music so bluelisteners forget to breathe,playing the sounds, jamming with myself,changing....into the me I can't quite see.”

“You're Beautiful Like the green romance of a budand lily's pink, gentle sway.You: more beautiful than yesterday. Wildflower's blue surprise.Daisy's white, sunny play.You're more beautiful than yesterday. Orchid's purple mysteryMum's bronze ole`You: more beautiful than yesterday.Rose's orange perfume,even tulip's yellow secrets say:You're more beautiful that yesterday.Poppy's red, teasing lips,but YOUR beauty will never fade. You: more lovely than yesterday,You: my dazzling bouquet.”

“Our Private RhymeI wish we could go back in time.I thought you'd live forever.I feel I'm only half our rhyme.You left and somehow I must climb back to live without your laughter.Can't we please go back in time?I try to smile, pretend and mimeI'm fine, survived disaster,but know I'm only half our rhyme. Will any spring or summertimeshine without your teasing whisper?I wish we could go back in time.I hope that you'll forgive my whines.I'm trying to be braverSo lonely being half our rhyme.I feel you near. We're intertwined.Your spirit makes me stronger.I know we can't go back in time.I'll strive to be our private rhyme.”

“.....and I smile and knowwhy people write music and paint and dance, lifted as if they can fly, because this ache crashing inside needs to be free.sometimes, love becomes a melodyothers hum for years.”

“I did realize, as do you, how blessed I was to know bookjoy, the private pleasure of savoring text.”

“I became a good writer when I saw the age of forty coming at me”