Magazine Posts

The days appear like serpentines,
sculpted, as if, from brass
as the nights, black curtain of darkness,
falls around us.
The moon's faint beams, of sadness,
begin to fill the voids,
except for shadows of darkness
staying the coming dawn.
Great rays of brightness, leaps from
the rising sun
and once more it is morning and
a new day has begun.

NO MATTER HOW LONG THE WINTER
spring is sure to follow.
~ PROVERB~

I know your name, better than mine.
I see it written on motel walls
or in the bottom of an empty coffee cup,
as I sit in a small diner, alone,
contemplating.

I have seen your name on billboards
or emblazoned on clouds by the
reflections from a neon sky.

In the morning, when I rise,
I see your name, in these
tired eyes, trapped within
the patchy mirror, reflecting
my morning image.

Not a day goes by,
when I don't think of you.
Not an hour passes ,
without my wanting you.
I'll love you forever,
forever and a day.
I will promise you never,
to go away,
from you.

Great God, up above,
will you please pay attention.
I was extra good today
and didn't even make
honorable mention.

Your whole life begins
each morning,
at the dawning of each,
beautiful day.
The future lies there,
before you
and it's waiting for you
to say,
that you enjoy life
and living,
in your own, warm and
loving way.

With my hand, laid gently
on your breast,
I draw the strength from
your body.
Your thoughts, become my thoughts,
your moods, my moods,
as we become one.
One being, coupled together,
through loves own passion.
A short lived, fleeting moment,
much too brief.
Loves ardor, now gone,
for the moment.

Soft is the shadow
under the tree.
Soft is the foam,
in from the sea.
Soft is the down,
from the breast of a dove.
Soft are the sounds of
the clouds up above.
Softest of all is
the sound of new love.

All twilight people are coming forth,
to make their presence known.
Arriving by the evening breeze,
tossed and turning, they have flown
to be present for the witching hour.
They dance lightly, in the air,
rhythmically jerking by hidden string
as transistors, in their voice box,
causes them to sing,
a mournful ditty.

Must we play games
of word and rhyme?
Asking questions, about the time,
when we were young.
Such strangers we are,
you and I,
always talking but never to try,
understanding.
You want your way
and I want mine.
You do your thing,
that will be fine,
if you believe.