Magazine Posts

The icy fingers
of Winter's end,
pry into a Spring,
where snow descends.

The grass was wet,
with new fallen snow.
Please leave us Winter,
do it now, just go.

Wish I could,
with all my might,
be with you,
all day and night.

You are my star,
the only one.
I am yours,
'til my life is done.

What kind of fool,
do you think, I'd be,
if I gave up,
with no fuss, silently?

A strange sound,
addled my brain.
My ears ringing,
I heard this refrain.

Stop the noise,
I heard someone sing,
those bells are paper,
they won't ring.

Smokey blossoms,
pinkish hue,
seeing this tree,
thinking of you.

The unusual clanging,
of the Chapel bell.
Ringing out the message
about the path of living well.

Long were the years, before,
well over 6 decades.
of a beautiful life,
in a penny arcade.

We lived well, for those years,
Two children, yes, we did.
Granddaughters, two,
twenty-two skidoo. Oh, you kid.

If life has beaten you down,
if all the breaks, go against you,
you must stand up, once more.
Be assertive, would be what to do.

Should I leave?
Should I go?
At this moment
I do not know.

No name exists,
it isn't so,
for me to leave,
when she says no.

Do you care,
one little bit?
Are you now,
the biggest Twit?

She will not change,
so you must.
Ridding your mind,
of her and you.

I can't, I say,
but I must pursue,
a single life,
of one not two.

What games we play
in Life's charade.
Acting lessons were
for the daily parade.

Acts we play,
characters we use,
to fool others
as we peruse.

those actions we
every day, choose,
to be the life actor,
we wish to use.

Is it a sham,
playing this game
of interaction with
others we can name.

Running hard,
through the trees.
A graveled path,
plunging down
the hill,
towards the lake,
with waters, still.

Games we played,
when we were young.
We played hard,
while running free,
no video games,
no TV.

Remembering, my first,
County Fair.
Music was playing,
loud, everywhere.
The aromas of food cooking,
a scent filled air.
Pronto Pups,
Elephant Ears,
Onions grilling,
Corn on the cob
steaming, lathered
in butter.
Great memories,
stimulate the senses.

The dirt, between
my fingers and toes.
Mud was my thing,
when as a child,
I would run
playing, wild,
like a weed,
growing in your yard.
Cut it down or
let it grow.
How it develops,
you may never know.