Magazine Posts

I think of you often,
for you are my wife.
I am so sorry now,
for this version of life.
You do not deserve this,
nor does anyone else,
a miserable existence,
not good for your health.

A fence line, with crooked rail atop,
wanders across the valley scene.
Dividing the land for all to see
and stop the livestock from
wandering away. The wood is weathered ,
a colored grey, with flecks of moss
and lichen, on the shady side of the posts.
The post is used as a perch for
all the birds, as they sit and search,
for the meal they seek; to keep clear
of starvation; to stay strong
and reduce the weak.
Fly away. Fly away now,
flapping your wings
as only you know how.

He was a small little rodent,
so much smaller than I,
who had made the decision,
he wanted to fly.
To be free from this earth;
so he could fly every day.
He would climb up the tree,
the highest, he would say,
leap from the shaky limb
and would be on his way.
He began climbing the tallest,
the highest he found,
leaping from the branches,
he fell to the ground.
Luck was with him,
on this, his luckiest night,
as he soon discovered,
on this first solo flight.
A few branches, on his way down,
had impeded his falling;
he became the talk of the town.
Be careful what you wish for.
Be careful what you say,
for when you leap from a branch,
it may not be your day.

I am now awake,
it's a brand new day.
The Sun will be up,
troubles gone away,
except it's not true
for me to say,
for Dementia is here.
Here it will stay.

I would like to explain,
the feelings I have,
when I write these words,
so you will understand.
The relief, once again
putting to paper with
my ink and pen;
typing the words, written here,
will on Kudo's appear.
Why is it so important to me,
for you readers to see
a very small glimpse
of who I might be?
Leave it alone, once was said,
but I favor the Beatles
who wrote "Let It Be" and it was read.

A golden, yellow curve entwines,
amongst the Tulip petals.
Tulip flowers; the delicate curve
of a Lover's breast, standing
with stems erect, as if in prayer,
as they genuflect among
the grey-green altar leaves.
Long is the beauty, visions to be
of Spring flowers, showing their
wares against the Grape Hyacinth
and golden Daffodils.

The Moon is ashine,
beams sifting
through the clouds below.
A silver color; a fine wine,
reflects on all it touches,
for the Worlds to see.
A night without a Moon,
is not where I will be.

I rise in the morning.
I am still half asleep.
I must begin moving.
I have promises to keep.

Life is like a sheep's,
lost deep in the herd.
Deep in the crowd,
a voice won't be heard.
Speak out now, for you must,
as the time will pass by
and our thoughts will be dust.

Where are the words
stuck in my head?
Why are they missing?
Is this a new process,
something I should dread
or is it a reason,
these words shouldn't be said;
not put to paper,
where they can be read?

Words, words, words.
Ah the wonders,
we read today,
as others will write
of the mood
now in play.
Tell me please,
what can be done,
so we can appease,
the hate of another,
who looks not
like me?

How wide the road,
how narrow the trail,
when the Pony Express,
delivered the U. S. Mail.