Magazine Posts

Pray to the Lord.
Prey on the land,
the choice is yours.
Yours to command.
Be you a good person,
as I know you are.
You were the one,
so much stronger than me
and I will carry my love
to the end of eternity,
and yet, when we're gone,
will we be in someone's memory?

How near the Earth?
How far the Sky?
Questions posed, over the years,
with physical numbers.
Is it now a clear answer?
Or must we question again?
To the end of the Earth
and travel some more,
to see the greenest of grass,
in a rain forest we see,
with echo's of bird sounds,
as we peruse dreams in our life,
while walking the byways,
crossing river and stream.
Climb mountains, with abandon,
meeting New World cultures,
unlike any we know.
Aren't all those events, important,
in this World so grand,
in a land of plenty,
with a forgotten man.

You're the man.
You're the best,
except for Adam,
who went West.
Adam West then
was an actor playing Batman.
These crazy words,
ring in my ear.
Join me now,
have a beer.
Off we go,
into the rain.
Help me here,
I can't explain,
why I write
out words.
Weird they are.
Are you sure
this is my car?
It is yours,
told you before.
Here you are,
asking for more.

Don't go soft on me,
with all our resolve,
to avoid talking to me
about a problem to solve.
You run from the truth.
You know what to do.
Place her in Memory Care.
Tell her, I Love You.

There are thoughts thrashing
around in my head,
scratching and clawing;
trying to get out
through the tips of my finger,
and movement of my hand.
Trying to reach the writer,
most literal, to understand,
what is happening to his mind,
at this time of his life,
with his life's company
a sick, Dementia laden, wife.

Sitting here now,
pen in my hand,
hoping to write words,
strong and not bland.
Scratch out I must,
these words which you see,
before they are dust
and will no longer be.
The are no clear thoughts
of what this writing will be,
except to say they live
within my minds infamy.

Why do we call
a knife a blade"
We can hone a blade,
meaning to sharpen, too.
I'm not sure about me
and I wonder about you.

Words can be soft
and words can be hard.
Hey! All you kids,
get out of my yard.

Tell me your story.
Please, do tell me,
for I am still
waiting here, for thee.
Why do you worry
about nothing you know?
Just bits of small flotsam,
does not make it so.

Life may be short,
no matter how hard we toil,
for the happiest life
may only be, all hyperbole.

Go from here.
Go from here, now.
Leave as you must.
Don't ask me how,
for I will not be
a party to this insanity.
Yet here I am,
scratching out words, then
trying to explain,
the mental mess I'm in.
No point to argue,
especially with your self,
when facts are just lies,
pulled from the shelf.

Tall ones,
short ones,
older ones too.
There was no attraction
until I met you.