Magazine Posts

When life is uncertain.
When the joy is gone,
will you still love me?
I'll sing a sweet song,
a song of redemption
is all that I know,
so without further adieu,
I dedicate this song,
directly to you.

She tripped on the stairway of life.
A most wonderful person, who's my wife.
It doesn't matter when Dementia strikes
for the timing is never known to you.
It matters not, if you are prepared
for your health to go South.

I feel as if my soul,
inside this shell of a man,
is being pulled from my being
and will be my life's end.

One,
is a number,
also a sound,
which ends with
the final countdown.

Two,
also a number
of one plus one,
which totals two
when you are done.

Three,
also a number,
important to me.
The month
of your birth,
in our history.

Four,
a number,
broad in scope,
remember now,
don't be a dope.

Five ,
is a number.
Cinco to you.
A fifth
when a quart
won't do.

Six,
a number
of a five and a one.
A half a dozen,
isn't this fun?

Seven,
a number,
total days in
a week.
A lucky number
is what we want.

Eight,
a number,
a doubling of four,
eighter from Decatur,
I'll say no more.

Nine,
also a number,
which will shine,
an upside down
six, most of the time.

Ten,
is a number,
the top
of the chain.
An end
to this
writing.
Say you're
a Ten,
then walk away.

A recollection
from a long ago time,
living in Riverton Heights.
Riding our bicycles,
on Hiway 99
to Angle Lake,
for an afternoon swim.
Pedaling past Bow Lake,
more of a pond,
there wasn't an
airport, not on that day.
If you go to the Hilton,
go to the back,
Bow Lake is there
and that is a fact.

I've travelled the World over,
always hoping to be,
locked in your arms,
and alone with thee.

The music was loud,
so obnoxious here.
What did you say?
It's noisy and I can't hear.

Gosh, my writing,
looks sort of weird.
Is that a sanity issue
or a rumor I've heard?

Come forth the morning,
I tire of the night.
Looking for the brightness
to this gloomiest night.

He was tall.
He was thin.
A skeletal man,
who still smoked,
using Bull Durham
and roll your
own papers.
Lay out the paper,
making a slight crease,
pour in the tobacco,
roll into a tube.
Lick the last edge,
to seal the fag.
Twist both ends,
put into the bag.
Take one cigarette,
you rolled on your own.
Strike a wooden match
on the seat
of your pants.
Light up the joint,
taking a big drag,
for this is
your reward,
a carcinogen fog.

When a large mass
is also a morass,
does it mean,
we are breaking apart:
How else your disdain,
over the rockiest path,
has torn a hole in my heart.
What else can I do,
when caring for those,
who come here, in part?
Who is to say, on this day
or even next week,
when you weren't here at the start.

I don't want it to be over.
I don't wish it to end,
for most of my life,
she was my very best friend.