Magazine Posts

Winter scene, sodden plants,
on ground below,
wet and flat,
crushed by Winter snow.

Dissolve, they will
into the rich soil,
as Spring approaches,
when Gardners toil.

Walking the edge
of our life's needs,
doing tasks when
well intentioned deeds.

How tall the Noble fir,
Grandeur, a stately way.
Still, the early morning,
afternoon breeze, you sway.

A vaulted ceiling,
a secluded place.
Will I once again,
see your face?

Too much to ask,
for, I must guess,
if I don't ask
you will never say yes.

Non sensical gibberish,
starving for subjects
to write about.
My mind is tired,
dried out. Lack of
sleep will do that
to you, no matter
how fit you are.
I am a long way
from being fit.
My arms like broom sticks,
as alligator skin hangs
from my limbs, like
discarded sheeting.

Good day today.
Month and day
total seven.
The year is in play.

A numerical array
to now leaven,
adding month and day,
add the year = seven.

Writing so much tripe,
so many useless words,
my brain is a dead zone,
this happening is absurd.

I reach out to you
my thoughts to take.
May I have some relief,
please give me a break.

The club, also appears
to be a lunch club meet
and a Dinner Club,
in the same place to seat.

He, the Physiatrist sits,
in his chair of splendor.
Seldom does he listen,
more a verbal vendor.

Holding court, he does,
speaking of subjects vast.
Listening not to others,
his conversation a broadcast.

Long lay the truths
in weed strewn doubt.
Don't be docile,
scream and shout.

Weather, clear, with clouds high.
Windless, trees are still.
I am missing you,
I always will.

When my days are over,
when our lives are one,
I'll remember always,
until this life is done.

What happens now,
when you know me not?
You asked me once,
then asked again,
"Who are you?"

You did that,
for most of the day,
until dinner time,
you said, "I know you".

How confusing
it must be
for you,
my sweet one.

I am trying to
allow you to adjust
to your environment
in memory care.
I miss you,
yet know I must
make this move.

It hurts.
Fortunately, you
won't remember.
I love you.

Long lay the stick,
on the path I trod.
I'm sure you are saying,
this sounds quite odd.

Pick up the stick,
is what I would say.
No one else will,
at least not today.

Why all the fuss
about a broken stick?
If I am walking,
the stick I don't pick,

may cause me to stumble
doing a head plant,
nose face in the dirt.
No, I won't. I just can't.