Magazine Posts

My memory is great
and quite, the game.
I'll never forget
old what's his name.

It looms in the dark
with the voices I hear.
A most troublesome thought
of an unknown fear.

Here sit I
in a living Hell,
coping with life,
not doing so well,
yet, my life is simple,
compared to my wife,
who's memories have fled.
No matter the dread,
which comes over me,
with the tears I shed,
as I no longer see.
The person I married,
will no longer be,
here to provide comfort
to this old couple, we.
Goodbye my love,
our parting brings sorrow,
for there is no future
of a beautiful tomorrow.

The red trike,
went zipping by me.
It's like a small bike,
but your feet touch the ground.
You sit on the seat,
and move rapidly down,
the sidewalk.
There are no brakes,
you must use your feet.
A very fun toy
but don't use on the street.

A mop,
a broom,
unkempt the floor,
with needles
and dirt;
so much more.
Sweep now.

Another day gone.
Another memory lost,
as the months pass.
What are the costs,
when long term memory
is no longer here?
What happens when love
is no longer near?

The knifes' blade is sharp
but not as sharp as the tongue.
The blade will cut
and the cut will heal,
where the cut from a tongue,
will remain hidden for years.

Words are peculiar.
Words which are spoken
your mind hears every day.
Words which are written,
may be corrected, if some
are in error or sound dumb.
An erasure of pencil
or where out of ink,
or deleted entirely,
faster than you can blink.
So choose wisely your words,
to avoid all embarrassment,
if your word choice is absurd.

The wail of a siren,
caught my aged ear.
Why does the sound
bring forth an old fear?
Volunteer fireman, what you were
in smaller communities,
when action was needed.
I stood and the siren did sound.
We followed the engine,
out of our small town.
A barn was on fire,
the flames were a roar.
We entered the barn,
to help set the horses free.
The fire was over,
the barn had burnt down,
but we didn't lose our animals
in this smallest old town.

A childish behavior,
is what I see,
as she goes around,
following me.
There is little rational thought
of where to go,
if it's right or not.
Most short term memory
is already missing, a lot.

My head is spinning.
My ears start to ring,
if I am not careful,
my heart will soon sing.
I answer the phone,
but no one is there,
just an aged person,
who when he walks,
looks like Fred Astaire,
as he bobs and wobbles,
down the path of his life,
trying to take care
of his beautiful wife.

Green light is starboard,
red light is port.
Green light is right,
red light is left.
A ladder is a stair,
a hatch is a door,
the floor is the deck,
ask me questions no more.