Magazine Posts

Will you wait for tomorrow,
when tomorrow may never come?
Laying there in a shelter,
after today's time is done.

The cost in lives,
painful to see.
No vaccinations,
more danger for we.

Will the Sun shine tomorrow
or will rain be in the air.
A cooling trend is coming
and the weather is fair.
The ground is still dry,
dead plants are every where.
New bulbs are arriving;
There's no time to spare.

A wall of stone,
lay before me,
covered with moss
and the shade of a tree.
A very, large Maple,
with huge spreading roots,
which lifts the stone.
Your wall will crumble,
if you leave the roots alone.
Life can be like,
a wall of moss covered stone,
as the challenges of severe health,
leave you standing alone.
It's hard to live, a life sheltered,
when in a lonely place,
for my only desire,
is to recall your face.
I've lost you to Dementia,
such a terrible disease,
robbing you of your memory,
without saying please.

I'm having trouble,
my mind is a mess,
for I have thoughts,
I now must confess,
of moving away,
as far as I can.
I now feel like
a failed old man.

Oh yes, I am,
a lost ship
without a rudder,
not in command.
I move in circles,
no destination
in play,
as every moment,
brings my emotions,
out to the ledge.
I'm walking now,
the fine edge
of my sanity,
for like a Judas,
I will soon betray thee.
I try hard
to bear not the guilt.
My life's goal
has started
to fade,
as I realize
the mistake
will become
a World without
you by my side.

When I was younger,
I would work on my car,
at my parent's house,
in the side yard.
I would borrow tools,
from my Dad's shop
and would return
them to the tool box.
Many years have passed by,
when I went home again.
Seeing my repair site
as I walked around,
I discovered a tool,
laying on the ground.
A 10 inch Crescent wrench,
once lost, now found.

Why can't
I stay here
with you?
Why must I,
soon bid you adieu?
Our life together
this many years,
will be over,
I can't pretend,
for a soul once broken
is most difficult to mend.

The Sun
in the morning,
pushes the fog
back to the clouds,
which ride slightly
above the ground.

A simple thought
will be the start,
as I replay, in my mind
the affairs of the heart.

Where is the creation,
where is the art?
What happens to the process,
when my thoughts fall apart?

If the creative part
of my mind starts to fail,
it will be the mental
equivalent of going to jail.