Magazine Posts

I love all,
the people I know,
even the ones,
called "Old, so and so.

The gloom,
from smog and haze,
hurts my eyes.
End of days.

If plants could speak,
what would we hear?
I need water and food,
and have other plants near.

Things I love to do.
Things I love to say.
Depending on thoughts of you
and my own disarray.

The days have flown into years,
memories faded from view.
I'll remember you, always,
long after life is through.

When I tripped and fell on the cement,
you could hear my voice, in lament.
Wondering, if anyone had seen me fall,
no one around, no one at all.

I knew you when,
before we met.
I'll know you again,
at the final sunset.

Alone in the dark,
no stars in the sky,
sitting close together,
we.

What thoughts are there,
about the passing by,
the closeness of you,
we.

Long are the memories,
of this life, ours,
at last were together,
we.

A reflection in time,
seen in your eyes.
The bygone days of
love and deceit.

The years
passing, slowly by.
Moments of love,
a losing of life.

What good
are the words,
losing the love
of friend and family.

Why are we here,
this short time,
wasting our moment
of memories past?

You think you know me,
because you know my name.
I have news to tell you,
life's not a game.

There are games, plenty,
and could name a few,
but what is the purpose,
if I don't know about you.

I am no "straight arrow."
Just a guy from the "sticks"
who has thrown everything,
from stones to bricks.

Don't get me wrong,
I didn't smash and grab.
I worked with a Mason,
one summer. My job, on the
ground was to throw bricks,
up to the roof, where he would
pluck them from the air,
stacking them before he
troweled "mud" or mortar,
then constructed a chimney.

It happened one morning.
I can't remember the day or time.
My writing was chaotic
and wasn't expecting a rhyme.

And, yet there it was,
simple as one plus one equals two.
I wrote down my words,
again, thinking of you.

Why the rhyming of words?
It wasn't making any sense.
I may not be the smartest,
but I know I'm not dense.

Over the years, I wrote,
as an idea popped in my head.
Words mean life to me,
they do now, as I've said.

Many years, gone by, now.
Words still flow, sometimes,
without any rush or hurry,
not even nickels or dimes.

I believe,
the first day
I stopped
drinking,
was the day,
they invented
the funnel.