Magazine Posts

I am writing, now,
with zero restraint,
will write words,
praying they won't taint.

The subtle malice,
of this draft,
hopefully, it's sane,
more likely it's daft.

My mind is behaving,
like a pinball machine,
with thoughts, crazy,
or somewhere in between.

Not good to write,
in this careless way,
unless your heart's
in utter dismay.

He rode a painted horse,
dappled, white and brown.
His daily adventure,
a trip into the town.

He rode a way,
to the pub he knew.
Drinking too much,
His horse knew what to do.

The horse, meandered
through darkest night,
taking him home,
under dismal starlight.

The moral of this story,
etch in your head.
Don't drink and drive,
ride a horse instead.

It's becoming too much,
when my tears,
fall on the paper,
when I am writing.

A small stand of willows,
on the side of a hill.
A quiet haven,
all silent and still.

A small stand of willows,
where deer lay,
a safe shelter at night,
in daylight, they played.

A small stand of willows,
Nature's sheltered room,
Twas where young love,
took root and would bloom.

A small stand of willows,
where it all began,
but love will be over,
when it is, days end.

He met a girl
and was smitten.
Who would have thought,
it was a new kitten.

A World of uncertainty,
a sign of our times,
where other comments,
are manufactured by design.

Lies which are written,
though the truth was known,
only to be spread for gain,
by others who are home grown.

What has happened,
in a life we reject,
with indifference to others,
lacking common respect?

You called my name,
I turned to stare,
looking all over,
You were not there.

The echos in my mind,
were missing, no sound.
Have you found a new life,
has it been found?

I would read novels,
tales of western yore,
about Billy the Kid,
the Dalton Gang, and more.

The early days, in the West,
travelling before rail,
when covered wagons,
used the Oregon Trail.

Imagine the adventure,
as you travelled along,
miles after miles,
toward your new home.

I remember some stories,
told when on their way.
He wrote many novels,
about the West, Zane Grey

There was a time,
remembering it well.
You told me then,
"Go to Hell."

I believe, I've found it,
a place I know well.
It's where you're living,
next to where I dwell.

Yesterday, the first day,
was where it began
beginning the path,
of where it will end.

When words are too harsh,
and their usage, too mean,
one should apologize, quickly,
before mean, becomes obscene.

I seek not,
was said to me.
Why are you here,
knowing you cannot see?

Do you understand?
I'd like to know,
what you are seeing,
isn't a travelling show.

You're seeing life,
in reality time,
no rose covered glasses,
just life, so sublime.

Was it hard for you,
to even understand,
your journey through life,
as a lonely, old, man?

Westward, he rode,
over mountain and plain,
crossing many valleys,
of the lands domain.

Travelling on horseback,
he was doing his best,
pursuing the journey
of the first Pony Express.