No Title

No title for this poem. I hope you enjoy it.

My harp plays,
In the cold, aging world,
A tune of sadness and despair.
The snow is sad,
Made from the tears of God
And once they land,
Create mourning.
A bird flies overhead,
And the sun has come up.
And everyone is forgiven
And the sunshine creates memories
Of the Hope
That flew overhead.

Memories

I wrote this poem. It is about memories. It's short, but I think it is a good poem.

Memories

Some are bad,
Some are good,
Some are simply as they should

Memories are, in a way, unique
Just like a nurse, Miss Monique
Some memories are sad,
Like when I scraped my knee and that was bad.

But some are good
They may, they could
And some perhaps, should not or should!

But we must remember that memories are from above
And that all are made up of love.