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Of love
and loss,
of a soul,
such as she.
What happens
now, when her
soul is free.

Life is short,
full of many treasures now.
Times change and here you are,
unable to maintain your vow.

She is gone,
away from thee.
You will never more,
her face to see.

Loneliness becomes
a part of your life,
for you no longer have,
your beautiful wife.

I miss you,
my darling soul,
but will soon be there,
and we'll be whole.

The finality of life,
as we know it today,
will soon change,
and go away.

It's OK for in this,
our life's cycle here,
will bring forth a
time which we held dear.

Life must end,
this we know.
I wish to exit quietly,
as my final show.

There are time when,
we should reflect on life.
This is one of those times,
when faced with strife,

you find there are outside,
influences effecting your way
of thinking. How you view,
what once was a safe day.

It is unfortunate, when life,
doesn't remain the same,
and we revert to calling it,
by another name.

A small fire,
with embers bright,
a perfect place to
contemplate tonight.

In the early days of my writing,
I chose to write verse,
or in my case, rhyming poetry.
I didn't know, for it was terse.

When we write of things,
which memory supplies,
may we assume we know,
before the memories dies?

Shared by Heather Cox Richardson from Letters from an American

"The first step in a fascist movement is the combination under an energetic leader of a number of men who possess more than the average share of leisure, brutality, and stupidity. The next step is to fascinate fools and muzzle the intelligent, by emotional excitement on the one hand and terrorism on the other" (1940)

Bertrand Russell (1872–1970) British philosopher, writer, mathematician, logician, historian, social critic, political activist, and Nobel Laureate. More

In early evening,
I fear the light,
when nighttime falls
and stars are bright.

What fear is there,
which lives in man,
when we must begin,
over and over, again?

A fear of the unknown,
or what lies ahead,
are often manifestations,
within our head.

Love has, many memories.
Here is one of imagination,
which I wish I could revisit.

If I write about tomorrow,
a day yet to be,
but change the words to yesterday,
for that is what I did see.

Tomorrow is the future,
today is today,
but the day before,
was another yesterday.