Magazine Posts

Does the light I see in your eyes
radiate love or must I surmise?
Nothing in this World, is a surprise,
not even when I hear your sighs.
Long may you live, a life once again,
as I lay in anguish, my life in pain.

As a young lad,
I loved to play hard.
Here's some advice,
don't play in the back yard,
when you are running
and your running is fine.
Do not forget the neighbors,
have a low hanging clothes line.

Please join me
in my insane mind.
I'll write the words,
you read the lines.

What was it like
when we could be
in this life together,
living for ever
and always to see,
a gradual aging,
my journey with thee.
Now here we are,
locked in a battle,
fighting a deadly disease.
Why is this happening to you
and not to me?

Saturday night,
a new dance at the Grange.
Always the same music,
always a Square Dance.
Put on fresh clothes,
go look for romance.
Many young women,
older ladies too.
What was a young man,
supposed to now do,
but dance, dance and
dance some more,
until you had danced
a hole in the floor.

A silver mist, dropped to the street,
covering tree branches, smothering the heat.
Fog creeping in, "on little cat feet".
When the Sun rises, it will retreat.

I was up in the hills,
hunting for mushrooms.
It was in the Okanogan,
a brushy, sapling covered space,
when I came upon a small,
deserted place. It was surrounded
by trees, some buildings collapsed,
probably a miner, working his claim.
I thought of the stories, of his success
or a failure to find riches
of gold in his mine.
Perhaps the only gold
were the thoughts in his mind.

"There's someone out there,
they're talking to me."
I say, it's just the news
and you they cannot see.
You're sitting there
on the bed end, it could be,
there is confusion, here now,
distinguishing TV from reality.

"What have you written?"
words sometime I hear.
At times when I write,
words just appear,
at the end of my pen,
touching the notebook paper.
Random thoughts, are in the air,
soon I have new writings,
over here, there and everywhere.
My mind is not, as disciplined now,
as I write words, over again,
with no sense of when or how,
as I write for you, my unknown friend.

Every day is different,
yet they're the same,
when she cannot recall
our oldest neighbors name.

Why does daughter
sound like Otter?
Why does laughter
sound like after?

Short is our life,
just a flickering flame,
a gust of wind;
End of the game.