Magazine Posts

A young boy,
riding his bike,
going like a
bat out of hell.

A right turn,
oops! There was a car.
A sharp jig to the right
put him into a hedge.

A small puncture in
the bicep of his left arm.
Remembering, it was bluish,
apparently, no harm.

Flash ahead, thirty years plus.\,
when the bluish tick,
began to ooze and
out came a little stick.

When I write for you,
I'll write in pen,
as pencil will fade away,
never knowing when.

What day, hath thy free?
A glorious, sunny day
exists for special people,
like you. Hoping you
have the chance to enjoy.

Longer the day,
moving from Spring
to Summer.
Not enough rain.

Floated the Butterfly,
amongst the blooms.
Flitting to and fro,
searching for nectar.

A pleasant scene,
to roam so free
with a sweet reward,
made just for thee.

My mind has gone,
short to ground,
as brain cells fry,
there is no sound.

No more memories,
they've gone away,
to never return,
even if we pray.

Yet here I am
in fallen glory,
filled with grief,
another story.

I love English Bluebells,
growing under the trees
and how they have multiplied,
providing beauty to please.

To please the senses
of all we see,
with a lovely fragrance,
for you and me.

Thirty-three years ago,
in the month of May,
I ran in a marathon,
up Vancouver BC way.

Rent the void,
be what it may,
no longer the twain,
shall meet.

Gone are the happy days,
no longer the joy,
seeing a shell of
the woman I love.

I still love her,
I always will.
She is sweet,
saying she loves me.

Wants to be with me,
I will work harder
to spend quality time,
with her, my love.

I hate this life,
she now is in.
I no longer believe.
Not anymore.

When I'm gone,
away from here,
please pause a moment
and open a beer.

A morning mist,
kissed the trees,
vanished, blown by
the early breeze.

Long were the rays,
of the setting Sun,
a sprinkling light,
another day done.