Magazine Posts

How does a person
make life whole again?
Is it done by writing
in a book with a pen?
I'm writing the words,
which are entering my head,
without benefit of rules,
or a guide, in good stead.
Some words are strong,
like a good grade of steel,
while many words are weak,
with little writer's appeal.
I must decide, the words to use
is what would be ideal.
Here I remain, wasting time,
as I search for words,
which will fit into this rhyme.

I don't love you anymore,
which I now confess,
but I find in my heart,
I don't love you any less.

The closing days of Summer,
rapidly pass,
perhaps it will rain
and put green into my grass.

Just received an e-mail from Brecks.
"Your bulbs are on the way."
Once again I got carried away and
ordered too many bulbs.
Now I just have to remember
where the old ones are located.
Shouldn't be a problem as I
use chicken wire, which I cut
to cover the bulbs. I know it
dissapoints the squirel helpers,
but it's the way it has to be.

Sit you here,
write down the word,
be it trite, simple
or just so absurd.
Your role is to write
words to paper.
Thoughts are elusive
and they will fly
away from you,
if you don't try
to capture them
when you can
or else you will become
a lost an lonely
wordless man.

Why is it now?
What is the need?
When your inner soul,
Has a need for speed?
Not speaking of drugs
Or of smoking weed,
Just a burning desire
And a need for speed.
Loud, rumbling engine noise,
Creates desire and the need
To race against others
And your need for speed.

This time of the year,
the smell of ovens heating;
a Fall harvest of fruit,
stuck inside a pastry shell,
makes us again, to think of eating.

My beloved's
thoughts are gone.
Broken sentence,
which make no sense,
as the words spoken,
elude me now.
She woke me at a early hour,
asking me why her underwear,
was in our bed?
Did I have plans for its use
or was this just a drill to see,
if I would lose my grasp
on the contiued attack on my sanity?

Why do the days pass
slowly,
while the weeks move
quickly
and months close with
speed?
The year is almost over,
done,
here I sit writing down words,
alone.

She says, "I love you"
over and over again.
I want to believe her
but I won't pretend,
for she remembers nothing,
of what she just said.

The roar of the wind,
through the top of trees,
can be entertaining, as
the tops will twirl and sway.

When I write,
I feel fine.
When the words stop,
will I remain kind?
I don't know.
Why am I asking you?
I'll keep on searching,
for it's what I do.
There are so many words,
but I will only use a few.