Magazine Posts

A strange animal,
with tail and tusk.
What are you,
an ox, Musk?

Musk Oxen have
horns, not tusk.
I know it's not,
a Duckbilled Platypus.

Wandering the earth,
what a sight to see.
Not the prettiest,
but a sight for thee.

A fiery fold,
a ragged edge,
once banned,
now could be said.

Stay with me,
forever, today,
into the morrow,
What's to say?

You, caught me,
months ago,
wanting to see you,
nowhere to go.

Will you
still love me,
when I'm
old and grey?

Life's hourglass,
running out
of sand,
of time.

It won't
be long
and I will
be gone.

For all the tomorrows
there is left in yesterday,
will I still be with you,
when love has gone away?

Every life has a beginning,
like the songs we sing.
Start your life with laughter
and to your song, bring.

All the desires, for tomorrow,
of this you should always bring
information, which is specific,
to all your songs, to sing.

Using words of pleasure
which make your head ring,
creates the aura of your soul
tugging at our heart strings.

When all of the tomorrows,
have passed and gone away,
may we remain here on earth,
to sing, laugh and play.

What are the costs
for all the baggage we bring,
in everything we know,
even in the saddest thing.

I look for you.
You're not here.
I look, again,
I am alone.

Not how
it was to be.
Here alone,
me, not thee.

Across the broad Pacific,
the sea was my home.
My great Uncle Sam,
allowed me to roam.

Travelling to islands,
largely, to me, unknown.
My bunk, my sanctuary,
sailing across sea foam.

Awake, in the morning,
dolphins swam alongside,
while flying fish,
came along for the ride.

Some mornings, cheery,
grey whales were near.
The noise, when breaching,
a great sound to hear.

How many adventures,
where there told,
when I went to sea,
at 20 years old,

Stay with me, now,
sweet lady, mine,
it's you I long for,
your voice is divine.

I sit on my bed,
the room is cold.
I write these words,
which never gets old.

Each word, I write,
each breath, I take,
moving to the breach
of a life, I forsake.

I will think often,
of these words I compose.
The more I understand,
your life, as a Rose.

Quit looking for content,
trying to understand me.
I am who I am.
It's who I must be.

Will you still love me,
when the brains in my head
have turned to mush,
still alive but not dead?

Writing of days, yonder,
before our time began,
is difficult, in telling,
of a first one-night stand.

There was something exciting,
a rendezvous, a scene,
straight from the movies.
Thank you, James Dean.

A small cafe, a cozy room.
He was meeting someone,
in the rear, by the door.
A planned meet to become,

the richest moment,
in this young man's life.
An exciting event,
meeting his wife.

A love of remembering,
a place of romance,
to be repeated,
as Life's last, slow dance.

Words flow from my head,
by my choice, not chance.
Longing for my love
at life's final dance.

Here, I sit writing,
at a quarter past 3,
asking the morrow,
where will I be.

Here with your loved one,
so important to me,
together, once more,
with myself and thee.

Sitting and listening to,
a Singer, pianist,
who I heard while
watching an Asian Melodrama,
Raechel Yamagata.
I've grown to love her voice,
and started to listen to her.
She is an American, from the
East Coast.

Stepped in a puddle,
up to my neck.
I swore, many words,
and finally said, "Heck."

Why am I wet,
from neck to toe?
Was told anything,
could go.

What does that mean,
I said, wet, still again.
The water is now
over my chin.

The hole was deep,
narrow, but not wide,
and try as I might,
it was a cold ride.

I worked for awhile,
like a stranded goose,
unable to
get myself loose.

So, here I am,
in a hole in the ground,
trying to go to
my sweet, humble abode.

I can't sleep.
It's 4 AM.
Tested positive
for Covid.
Hip, Hip, Hooray,
I say. Just what
I needed. I am tired.
I'm concerned about
my wife, down in Memory
Care. I'm such a woos.
Want to be comforted,
by her but know I can't
see her. Life sucks,
sometimes. She did, test
negative. Now to call
those friends I saw the day before
I was diagnosed, so they can get,
tested.