Magazine Posts

Do you suppose
if I were to propose
a meeting of those
with the funny old clothes,
they would accept? Who knows
for they're wearing odd hose.
I suppose I would, if my nose
invited them and they arose
to ask of the nature of those
who did lately, I suppose.

The Midnight bells
rang loudly then.
It was when it all began.
The Moon disappeared
behind a cloud,
as the Midnight bells,
kept ringing, loud.
Bright the lights; Heaven
did shine,
as we heard the
peasant scream.
Where are you , My Lord?
Why have you forgotten
us, here, in this place?
Now we know and must face
our shortened life's new embrace.

Be not the day,
be not the night,
when the words,
do not come,
with any rhyme.

From without, the night.
From without the day,
You will do what you do,
And do it your own way.

The ink doth flow
from out the pen,
to the paper yet
again and becomes
the words, which I write.
Not profound, perhaps trite.
Words are coming,
from my mind.
Words of truth
from memories, mine.
Where to go, please tell me now
for I miss the life,
we once did live.
Not the one be have
today, where most of
your memory has gone away.
Gone from here. I don't know why,
but what a loss it is
and a terrible way to say goodbye.

Words to paper.
Ink from pen,
my writing process,
came back again.
Words, some kind,
some with ease,
can be filthy
covered with slease.
Why write those,
when you please?
So provocative,
they will tease,
a thought, what
this mind sees.
The words vanish
with a Spring breeze.

When the words in your head,
bunch up; all jumbled inside
and you discover your thoughts,
have taken a new path,
what is it you do?
When does your mind flee?
If your Psych doesn't or cannot
run free as the West wind;
no place to go. What is
the option? There is not
a clear path, for me to ponder
or to think it's divine,
as the World, coils around you
like a snake all serpentine.

More rain has fallen
and the grass is quite green,
as I look from the window
at the streets wet sheen.
We need a warmer Sun
to boost the flowers growth,
bringing back the Spring colors,
which I now love the most.

Who writes this tripe,
must have zero memory,
for I don't recall,
anything resembling me.
Me, with my EGO,
inflated like a dime store
balloon, leaking air;
will deflate quite soon.
Please help me now, I'm begging
you. Oh please, I will
pray for all I must appease
the writing spirits at the top of
the stair. The spirit of life
is everywhere. Go now from me.
Please let me be, for the loss
of one close, is what I do see.
I pray for your spirit, every night
of my life and will pray again
for my friends and my wife.
My family and friends are loved
by me. Please dear Lord, I pray;
let them stay here with me.

I awake from a stupor.
I'm down on the ground,
where I am surrounded by people,
who I see, but there is no sound.
What has happened to me?
A question, I would ask,
except there are few words.
which come with my gasp.
I am alone but then I'm not,
for here is what I see,
propped up against the trunk
of a dying, old tree.

I am seeing more changes
of my wife and my bride,
as she no longer remembers
the rooms of our house, inside.
No concept of time,
nor of what it can be
and yet, in bed at night,
the conversation is utter delight.
She'll snuggle, to get close to me
and talk about nothing,
I know or can see.
How long will this last?
I have nary a clue,
but here I am now
and I'm devoted to you.

I'm no longer a believer,
in life's fairness, of what I see,
when the cruelest disease can be,
a Dementia which attacks your mental state,
for who do I pray to, when I am so irate?