by Angela Kempe

Some loves are lost,

 Like kites in the wind.

You see colors fading,

And know it will end.


You pull the string tighter,

 But still it unwinds.

You try to hold on,

But the wind is unkind.


The kite bends,

And tail streamers swirl.

It circles around,

In a perilous twirl.


You hold the line tight,

Yet it comes to its end,

The kite becomes heavy,

And starts to descend.


So you let it loose.

Letting go felt so natural.

It was what the wind wanted.

The idea seemed admirable.


The kite tumbles downhill,

Slamming against dirt and grass,

Cracking at the spine.

You run to it,

Your hair trailing behind.


Is it still beautiful?

Will it fly?

Can it ever be what once was?


When you find it,

The kite is mangled.

Love is lost,


Pieces that fit poorly in the trash.


So you call it a friendship,

And refrain from all that was.

Passion, color, beauty, love.

All the things that come with that simple memory

of flight.


If You Loved Me

byAngela Kempe


I thought that we,

Had what we need.

I would love you,

You would love me.

What are these dreams,


It’s as it seems,


What could we be,

If you loved me,

Like I do?


I promised you,

You promised me.

We promised us,

All we could be.

But you loved you,

And I loved me.

Now you are gone,

I am set free.

What could we be,

If you loved me,

Like I do?

Gone Now

by Angela Kempe


The creek rushes and Sam goes running,

After leaves drifting down stream.

The water shushes, my tears are hiding,

And the day blurs like a dream.


The trees are stirring as I’m walking,

But leaves have long since gone.

So branches crackle, bending, moaning,

As they try to carry on.


A ray of light breaks through the grey sky,

And I could smile at how,

You are like the snow that melted,

Beloved, but gone now.


(For my soul dog, George, who lived a good 15 years)


by Angela Kempe


One warm day vanishes

And a storm brews in the night

Spilling cold rain on all the flowers

Wilting, freezing, rotting at the root


The flower of youth is gone

She sits staring out the window

Memories of her life fading

She is vanishing, wrinkled, alone


Where did the days go?

Those once lived free and vivid

Like the colors of a rainbow

An apparition in the storm


Everything significant is lost

It all loses value in time

And the flower that bloomed on the east side of the hill

Where the river rushes by the quiet meadow

Is invisible

The Girl in Shackles

by Angela Kempe

In summer, she belonged to the sun,

Skin tingling under its nurturing warmth.

In autumn, she ran with the wind,

Hair flailing  in crazy knots.

In winter, she succumbed to the rain,

Mourning years passing like rumbling clouds.

Then in spring, she celebrated,

Dancing barefoot on the cool damp earth.

Passion; bound,

Devoted love,

Her heart; imprisoned by the cycling whims of nature.

A Part of Me

by Angela Kempe


I wanted to bury you,

But I was the one who died,

A long time ago,

And it was a long flight

to heaven.


I kissed the wind for you

I felt my skin against the blue

I thought that I was over you

but you had kept a part of me


I don’t have to recall,

Those days are hard to remember,

I let it all go,

Like balloons drifting

into night.


I kissed the wind for you

I felt my skin against the blue

I thought that I was over you

but you had kept a part of me


The Deaf Man’s Song

by Angela Kempe

I was alone with my mind until I wasn’t even alone with myself. While imagining a sea of strangers sitting in the dark with blank faces like lanterns floating whimsically upon a moonlit lake. My fingers gliding over white ivories with the manic intensity left only for the indubitably insane. Listening to my heart heaving underneath the quiet sound of muted notes suffocating under a constant high-pitched hum.

I felt fingers tapping fervently. Eased my wrists to soften under the passionate prodding of my mind as hate oozed out of my soul like the hot magma of a seething volcano, disfiguring all that it had loved. The song, once exploding with rich overtones, crackling like sparkling fireworks resounding in my ears, now smothered by the strict repetition of monotonous memorization, muscle memory, and the memory of what music once was.

To remember what was loved so dearly, vanishing like a lover who lost interest long ago. Music: its thousand notes, fading and folding like a picture whose face stares faintly back at me from the thick fog of death.