Magazine Posts

How do these thoughts come to mind?
Where do they come from when they're unkind?
I wish I could explain this to you,
But I can't. I know they appear in my queue
And then I write them; write them I do.

It's time to write.
It's time to shed,
All of these words,
Stuck in my head.
I must now write,
Quick as I can,
For words flee
Much faster than
I can put them to paper
And so you see,
If it's not written,
I won't capture thee.

In the morning hours,
sitting, with pen in hand,
words pouring forth
like mental sand.
Falling to paper,
inscribed with ink,
only I know what I think.
My mind is filled,
with words galore,
pouring out through an open door,
for my hand is starting to hurt,
as I sift through the sandy dirt.

Patience, oh patience
be there for me.
I need you now,
more than I say
for this challenge in life
is not going away.

If I say to you, my friend,
Our day is coming and will end.
A life filled with love and pain,
That when gone, there is no refrain.
Never more to see the beautiful Spring,
Nor hear the sound that birds sing.

I have a problem, that I now see.
That little problem, I believe is me.
When life has changed; gone amok.
If everything you touch is just bad luck.
It is hard to control my mentality.
To remain positive taking care of thee.
I need some time of my own, that I see.
A time that will revive and refresh,
So I regain a better looking reality.

What is this life supposed to be
when looking into eternity?

I fear my Soul has gone
far across the raging sea.
Perhaps it has tired of this life
And wants to be set free.

I do remember.
It's been awhile,
The sound of laughter,
That crooked smile.
The eyes so brown,
The dark, long hair,
The girlish figure,
You had no waist.
Walking fast,
Not like now,
When steps do falter
And then somehow,
You stop to rest,
As aches and pain,
Stops you from
Walking fast again.
I love you so,
Even with your mind
No longer there
And words that come
Are of great despair.
What will I do
When your are gone
And I, no longer
Hear our own love song.

The light of day
made it's way
across the dewy grass.
The shadows of darkness
were like shiny glass.
Flowers were tightly closed
awaiting the morning Sun,
while Bees began their flight,
a journey yet to come.
As the dew began to dry
when Nature's morning try
was, once again, on the move
in a repetitious manner
of colors to peruse.

My love for you does abound.
There is no music nor any sound,
That is like my love, profound.
Tell me please, what can I do
To profess my love to you?

My mind is in a shallow grave.
No depth of soul,
No heart, the brave.
I search for words. They do not come.
Perhaps I should drink some rum.
Whimsical verse, M. Oliver says to me,
Will not happen. Lost in my reverie.