Magazine Posts

I was 22 years old,
sitting in a smokie bar.
I had little spending money,
did not own a car,
but there I was,
now drinking for free,
as my friend the bartender
was pouring for me.
This friend, is no longer here,
for Nature has caught up
and he did disappear.
No more voice to hear,
never any oral sound,
for he now lays,
6 feet under the ground.

Black is the color
of this moonless night.
Black is the heart,
when he takes flight.
Fear not the darkness,
welcome the fight.
Life will be better
at Dawn's first light.

Campfire ablaze,
a castaway shell.
A pathway to trouble
of which I know well,
the road to Perdition's
slow ride to Hell.

How lone must I linger?
Will I ever again roam,
From this lockdown World,
Which we still call Home?

I'm in the kitchen,
looking at our deck,
when four Crows,
come, starting to peck.
Bring us some food,
they are calling to me,
for we hunger now,
can you not see?
I had given them almonds,
an expensive nut.
Now I have changed
to tearing up a bread crust.

I will not write
because I cannot see,
the evil of men
and their hypocrisy.

A simple February muse,
is about the two's.
Who says they do?
Why, 2021, 21, 02.
Simple words, in kind
lost in my mind.

How do you write the words, as before,
when all of your words are no more?
Words which sprang to paper, easily
because, as if, they would never be,
an anti-thesis of a once, creative mind
which spills globules of words, most unkind.
I long now, for those days so galore,
which have become nothing and are no more.

An earlier time,
a slow dance,
is there time,
for another chance?
Isn't it sad,
an old romance,
never the same,
Cupids arrow perchance,
missed the target
and won't enhance,
the lost love;
an old romance,
just once more.
A last dance.

The words, softly spoken
are so very intense.
I don't understand for
the words make no sense.
No sense to me now,
to explain why I write
for so many of my words
are sounding so trite.

You know the highway is slick,
as you drive down the road
and the red lights you follow,
turn to white and back
to red, spinning like a top.
My heart jumps into my throat,
while a calmness comes over me
for the "black ice", on the road
I drive has appeared as
dry pavement, which it is not
and maybe the end of me.

I am desperate, to write.
I am desperate, right now,
to write of my love,
but not remembering how.