Magazine Posts

I remember the glory,
as I recall from my side,
when I jumped on
my horse; sitting astride.
It was a time
for the Carousel Ride.
The Merry Go Round,
and how I tried
getting a black horse,
with saddle so wide,
for it was the Summer
of the Carousel Ride.

Do you have a plan
for your remaining life,
when you battle through
your worry and strife,
to arrive somplace afar,
as you search for answers
of who you really are?

Most people wanty to live,
few people want to die,
but living takes an effort
and we all must try,
to change this place,
from sorrow to the joy
reflected in a child's face
when viewing a new toy.

It's three AM
and here I am,
a very tired;
tired old man.
Why can't I sleep,
through another long night,
as I sit and scribe
all these words, so trite.
Writing of a sadness,
is what I now do,
as I think of my friends,
like you and like you.
Is it worth it,
having a sleepless night,
while writing these words,
with no plan in sight?
I hope it is, I really do
for I write for me
and I write for you.

I tire of this writing style,
for words, come not to me.
My mind has slowed to a crawl,
as my body strength does flee.
Words which came along this way,
no longer do they appear to me.
Do I care? Of course I do,
for writing was a pleasure; mine.
Perhaps I need a spark again.
I'll try again, while drinking wine.

When I write about words
laying culled on the floor,
it is a mental image
and means nothing more.
There is nothing more,
nothing more, instead,
the words are those still
lodged in this old head.
My heart will pull forth,
words when I write,
with little of my malice
as I'm not always right.

You promised to love me,
to honor and to obey,
but no one said anything
about your going away.
You cannot leave me,
here, unhappy and alone,
when you were my first love,
who I've always known,
and yet, here, I am the same,
still being near to you,
though you don't remember my name.

I cannot describe what goes through my mind,
when I ask you for something, you cannot find.
It's sitting near you; in front on the floor,
but you don't know the name; never, no more.

From the back corners
of this constrained mind,
comes old memories,
entwined with cobwebs
and brain dust, in all
the nooks and crannies.
Being on the narrow edge
of my own insanity.
This mind is cluttered,
words need to be
scraped free from views
of long, past positions,
to update the way
and think of love.
Don't dwell on the hate.
Re-use the words.
Find a new way
to continue your writing
and say, my life is better
at least on this day.

Dawns early light,
brings forth a new day,
for it is the Sabbath.
God, let us pray.
Pray for our neighbors
and this I must say,
wear a mask in public
and when you play.
Be here for the morrow
and for the next day.
Avoid crowds, as you must,
keeping the virus away.

There is one thing
I wanted to do,
is sing Happy Birthday.
Sing it to you,
a friend of mine
from so long ago.
Today is your day,
today is your show.
Happiest birthday to you
are the words on this page.
Did you tell me,
what is your age?

From my heart,
words came to beguile,
explaining why the
words came with style.
Asking of you, I say
you are looking
marvelous on this day.