Magazine Posts

Give me some help.
Give me a chance,
to rekindle,
my oldest romance.

I see the vision
locked in your eyes,
of awe and excitement,
when you are surprised.
Along the deep water,
I hear Nature's sighs.
It is then I notice
the lost love in your eyes.
Perhaps, if I can pretend,
I will see you once more,
You'll still be my friend.

A windmill to joust with
during a chaotic chase,
are the stories of Legends,
who crossed time and space.
Imaginations would soar
for this was the place,
where the Spirits before us
made their final embrace.

I will not chase thee,
It's no longer a game,
for life is too real.
You know not my name.

I was 14 years old,
on my first cattle drive,
riding a horse,
who performed better than I,
on this lifetime adventure,
during my early life.
The Quarter horse,
knew how to herd.
I was along for the ride,
as the cattle were driven
down to Dry Creek,
the name of the area,
near Ellensburg.

Why are these words
important to me?
I write for myself
and the reader to see,
the love in this life,
when I write about thee.

I'm writing these words,
a line in repose,
with a scratchy pen,
impeding the flow,
of the word creations,
filling row after row.

I've found
it's not the fall
which hurts,
but hitting the ground
where stone and rock
brings a new word to me.
It's embarrassing shock,
to find yourself,
down in the yard.
Who knew a rock
was this darn hard.
A very small bruise,
at the top of my hip.
Why didn't it break?
I will never know,
except to avoid stairs,
wherever I go.

I keep hearing these words,
spoken to me,
"I want to go home
and go away.
I'll find someone else,
who will take care of me.
"My parents are gone,
they're no longer here"
she will repeat the words,
over again, when she
becomes frustrated with me.

I am an emotional mess.
My mind is in pain.
The sorrow I feel,
is hard to explain.
We have been married
over 64 years,
but soon will be
separated and tears
will leak from eyes,
wet with the dew,
thinking about us.
Thinking about you.

A Grouse,
an Old Speckled Hen,
were drinks of choice
way back when.
We would go have
a drink at the
local watering hole.
The Grouse was Famous,
a nice, blended Scotch.
The Hen was English
beer. A nice tasting brew.
We would watch
soccer matches, having a few.

A lone, single hand
was resting at four.
A minute hand working;
doing it's chore.
The hour hand was missing,
unable to find it's place
in the correct position,
on the clock face.
What time is it?
someone would yell,
it is 20 minutes after something
is all I can tell.