Magazine Posts

Desert stories
of blowing sand,
telling of a love mystery,
of the desert and

saying who we were,
whence we came.
Why would these stories
be considered lame?

No time for love.
No time for hate.
Lost in this mucked up life,
as I worry about my beloved.

When will she no longer smile,
when she sees me?
I want to know....but then I don't.

When dreams, go asunder
and life's paths change,
it's not time to panic.
You must rearrange.

The love you will lose,
may never come back.
Stay close to the issue
and never look back.

The love you have lost,
may never return.
You must keep trying,
There's still time to learn.

Someone asked me,
"Why do you write?"
My answer was,
"It makes me feel right."

When worries attack,
the way which I feel,
I'll write about it,
to keep my mind real.

Hearts are broken,
never the twain,
for the love you have
will still remain.

For you, my dear,
I say this once more,
knowing you won't
be the same anymore.

Of dragon tails
and eye of newt.
Herbs mashed,
by hand, not foot.

Those old days, long ago,
remembering when,
they were the days,
our lives began.

Fairy tales and fables, many,
were told besides fires, bon.
These tales and words,
no longer, now gone.

Think of happy days,
of happy events, not timeline,
long may they live in
memories of yours and mine.

These are our stories,
to tell at night,
full of memories,
of our own delight.

My words escape me,
trying to write,
what spills from the brain,
on this warm, summer night.

Words stop coming
or they are few.
What am I now
supposed to do.

When words leave my mouth,
they're no longer mine.
Words are lost,
all of the time.

Don't be foolish,
accept the grief,
for you, my friend
are a word thief.

You borrow from others,
as you often do.
I'm pleading guilty.
What about you?

Sometimes, I thirst for conversation,
wanting to be around people.
Other times, I want silence,
and don't wish to see or talk to others.

Normal? Abnormal or just a case of my
mind being overly taxed with worry
about what the future may bring.

Along came a hermit,
his name was Dave.
He lived not, in a house,
but a moist, dirt cave.

He was hard to understand,
as he muttered a lot.
He had a collection
of things he had bought.

Scarves and books,
even some three penny nails.
HIs most famous collections,
was a case of Veils.

Veils he had salvaged,
from a long time ago,
they were best when
you had no place to go.

Will, if I could,
grant all your dreams,
fulfilling happiness,
to your health supreme.

You are an enigma
and have me confused,
for when I speak,
I seem to offend you.

"Don't tell me what I like,"
you said to me,
in a snappy way.
Oops, I'll let it be.

I talk over people
was another refrain.
I'll have to plead guilty,
though it caused me pain.

It's a way we talk
where I come from.
If you didn't speak,
your words wouldn't come.

I am sorry if these
words which I say,
cause you distress,
I'll just go away.