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Spice is Nice:

Spirit, Love, Meditation and Self-Improvement

By Andrea EstradaPublished 2 months ago 3 min read
Spice is Nice:
Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

A Poem

I am a writer, nevertheless,

I write, I may

not be the best

with words.

My expression is for all.

I must confess, I write with my heart, for all it is,

I will be distraught if not to give all I got.

Expressions have come and gone,

many a day, hidden within me.

Seasons have passed, time moves

fast, on and on, each day anew.

Each day, new changes. Each year

differently unique to you. Natural

routines exist, or shall the shadow

of stale manners allow you to wallow

in your hollow? With marshmallows,

cocoa and crème cakes. Farts and

fakes are what bad habits make.




we all be



The solution I see,

evolution to me.

A quest with zest,

twisty testy embrace,

unbeknownst to me,

an evaluation I see -

chaos & turmoil,

foil and coil,

met with

discipline and direction,

flittering attractions,

instruction with alacrity,

creates leaping

fashions of

compassion and honesty.

A gabfest,

a traverse complexity,

the tenacious Odessy,

a remarkable fable.


radiant philosophy -

a chance, maybe

a dance with no prance.

A waltz contains no faults,

a trail has no fail,

and a joke for some folk

about a cow with no tail.

Jokes have no sails with

no strange tales

that misty air tells.

Honest policies

keep integrity

intact, leading to

conscientious festivities.

“To trust with respect

is to graciously infect.”


Fonts that flaunt,

flaunts that taunt,

fonts that taunt as

well as a haunt.

Taunting the fonts that

skim across my screen.

Squirming at new terms,

chirping and tapping,

flittering and flapping,

my heart yearns to learn.

Tapping, trickles, sipping

a happy environment.

The keys clack,

seeds planting,

daylight fleeting,

my eyes seething,

at the teasing of

squeezing in midnight

hours, growing into flowers.

Birds gather, hereafter,

in treetop nests, while

flopping frogs are about,

lounging upon the dragonflies.

Nighttime stalking, prey talking

deep in an eerie midnight wood.

Trees dancing, grass swaying with

the forceful fresh air blowing

through them. Wind blows

through the fields and valleys,

forests and mountains.

Once the dark is upon us,

critters give fright in the night.

Out of their cave come the bats

to feast in the dark parts.

At the height of the night,

a bat has a snack in sight.

The bats come out for snacks,

so hold onto your hats.

Over the valley, in a trolly,

there is folly. Dredge lies

under the bridge, like what

has been left in the fridge.

The chill in the air remains

fair. While the quails, oh,

they wail for the hunter is here.

Lead the way to the quay,

my ship sets sail at once,

away from the shore, away

from the quay. If I may say

my seaside travel will unravel

a hidden mystery of secrecy.

Oh, what a bore

do those chores,

eat a bite or two,

work hard, love well,

stay responsible,

focus on

an errand or more.

To the store and back,

to fill the fridge,

just a smidge,

pick up that duster,

extra dusting,

here and there,

staying still, I watch

the dust spread; I fret.

I met crawling

empty cobwebs

along the attic walls

where critters hid.

In the closet,

we grab a broom

to sweep

the floors as

we jaunt the halls.

Watch the walls

for cobwebs,

those spider beds,

those that crawl,

lurking and sprawling among the halls.

Oh, no more, please.

I tease as you play

with wildflowers,

lilacs, daisies, and

those daffodils too,

as you stay in your

garden true.

Which was made

just for you.

Oh, my dear,

you sore, above all clouds.

A truth-filled heart.

Your purity rings true.

Your strength is wisdom,

honour your virtues,

and you also can stand true.

nature poetry

About the Creator

Andrea Estrada

I am a young, generous and optimistic individual. I love reading with imagination and writing with passion.

We share friendship and wellness, love and connection, imagination and emotion by envisioning, creating, writing and sharing stories.

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