Magazine Posts

When love does bloom
It brightens the room
And radiates up high
To rapture and sigh,
Of all the things
Not requiring rings
Of bells or flame
Or one to blame.
It's not to be,
For there's no certainty
Of our life's desire,
Until we do expire.
I wish I had
When a young lad
Expressed love to another.
For it matters not
What I have begot,
If it's kept away,
From those who say,
It will not be
Until you are free.

Talk to me, not about where you've been
Or about your long night of sin,
For I know you lie as day is night
And it matters not if all the light,
Falls upon your senseless shame,
Or who in life, that you can blame.

I did not know
that an hours sleep,
would cause my mind
to want to seep
out all these words,
that continue to creep
down to the page,
where I do keep,
all of my writing
trite and some deep,
to make a choice
of words to reap
and publish them now,
not letting them leap
to freedom and be
rich but not cheap.

Building a campfire, takes some knack
Of arranging wood, not in a stack,
But carefully building your little pile.
Take kindling and make a teepee,
A little paper, crumpled into a ball,
Touch with a match and in awhile
Flames will flicker, driving away the dark.

I was young. It was Spring.
The Seattle Times, did this thing
That challenged youths pitching skill.
A wooden frame, of rectangular shape,
With a middle cut out, or "strike zone."
The object, was to throw strikes,
Until you threw four balls.
The contest winner, was the one
Who threw the most strikes,
Before they did finally succumb
With four balls or a walk you see,
And it was fortunately me.
A big event in the eyes of mine
A picture of me throwing strikes
In the Sports section, Seattle Times.
A great memory for me to share
About a success, where they weren't aware.

Life is like a leaky boat,
With a goal to keep afloat.

Here I go,writing now,
so I can go to sleep.
If I don't, I'll nod off,
shortly after, I do eat.
What a waste, I say to you,
that are all complicit in,
no matter who your are.
Don't tell me your history,
about Bush, Clinton or Obama.
Your hate filled words
are just a poor reflection
about your hate of others
not like you.

Can I write without doing a rhyme?
Or is it my burden to carry on?
Writing for me, frees up my soul
And allows the expression of my joy
Or sorrow, of what happens in life.
A freedom to write, of what I'm thinking.
I need not publish, my thoughts to you,
But I can if I wish or if I want
To let you know, how my mind works.
At least those are thoughts in my head,
For this very moment and at this time.

Say what you want
Believe what you will
We have trouble
On the DC hill.

Noise in the street
Snow plow on the move
Finally

The frog hid, beneath the lily pad.
Staying out of sight of a stalking bird.
He remained quiet, as he should
For a Blue Heron was in the pond,
wading, watching and moving along.
Rippling the water, to see frog or fish,
Finding food, it's fondest wish.
It needed food to survive this day
To remain a beautiful, prehistoric,
Bird of Prey.

I hurt and ache
for goodness sake.
Flu shot had,
was good to do,
not so the flu.
Get lots of sleep
and liquids too.
It's best if
that's what you do.