Magazine Posts

My heart aches,
I think of thee
and of the World,
we were going to see.
No longer a trip to plan,
for travel will not be,
in our future, I scan.

When the Sun falls
on the end of your day.
When the lessons, you learned
have failed and gone away,
will it be the time to lose your toys
and prepare your life, once more,
as the life you live,
is not here to stay.

It was long ago,
when a boy and his dog,
would, "Hit the road"
and walk the trails,
with fishing pole in hand.
Life was so grand,
when mile after mile,
passed by. Walking from
Riverton Heights to
Maple Valley. It was
a trek, for a Boy Scout,
newbie to make.

As I sit and stare
at the empty chair,
waiting for you to show,
I am remembering when
you were my only friend,
and I was your beau.
So many years now gone,
I thought I would try
to rekindle the warming flame.

The light creeps out,
across the wood floor,
stays away from the window,
stays off of the floor.
Leave the door open,
await the first guest,
for tomorrows the Sabbath,
it's then you may rest.

The sound of silence,
a sound which is cold,
as a wind from the North
is blowing. The chill of
the air is everywhere,
cutting through your
lightweight clothes. No matter
the class act you were,
or the sordid life which
you led. What good is
this life, when there is
no joy, no kindness,
left in the World?

I walked with you,
in our better days.
I talked to you,
about many things.
I speak to you,
my heart sings.
I share with you,
my love this day.
I think of you,
your mind, gone away.
I love you now
and will every day.

When a loved one,
leaves your life, suddenly,
there is time to grieve
and to heal.
When a loved one,
is lost by Dementia,
the body is there,
but no memories.
How do you heal
your broken heart,
when she sits
next to thee,
but remembers not
your time together?

The sharp edge of fear,
stroked the back of her hair.
It covered her body,
with angst and despair.
She cannot reason
or think for herself,
although there are moments,
I see the old you,
in many actions taken
and then it ends, like
turning off the "proverbial switch".
What happened to logic?
It is no longer in play,
as we move quickly towards
another lost day.

Fix the fire,
fix the light,
guide me through
the lonely night.

The hammer fell,
not once or twice;
one more swing,
now it's thrice.

A hammer beats on
sheets of tin,
making surface marks,
using the peen.

Artistic touch, will begin,
when working on
a scene, placed within
and far beyond.

See the surface,
no longer smooth;
with each stroke
for a short peruse.

Plow the land,
create the furrow;
making lines straight;
straight as an arrow.
Make the rows broad,
the right size to walk.
Visit your neighbor
about crops; you talk.
Till the good earth,
which is God's plan.
Provide the World food,
the way you can.