Magazine Posts

When the words, in my head,
gather anew,
to form into sentences of one
or a few,
with some sensible writings of
more than two,
be eroded by use and time,
as they do,
for my life's simple pleasure,
caring for you.

I listen, with great aplomb.
Some one said I've written a bomb.
How to react, when you have heard,
the definition of an absurd word?
Respond gracefully, is what you do.
Not with anger, but a thank you.
Thanks for inputting your words, lame,
perhaps I will write a new refrain.

Is it too hard to say hello,
Or to shake the hand, I see?
Or bump an elbow or a fist,
is the greeting, done today,
for all the hugs and kisses,
have left and gone away.

When I was a young child,
I loved to explore, the creek
which passed by our back door.
The sound of the water, over rock
and stone; the attack on my senses,
as water, gurgled and splashed,
are memories, from a long ago past.
Turn over a rock and you would find,
a little creature; a periwinkle.
It's shell was hard; sand and grit,
to protect the larvae, living within.
They hatched in the Spring, a May fly,
and the fish, in the stream, ate again.
There were little fish, a "Bullhead"
looked like a small catfish, to me.
As my recall is slipping away,
but I have remembrances, mine,
which I will recall again and again.

Talent comes and the talent
will soon formant,
if the skill you have
is a compliment.
Come you now, forlorn soul,
you can repent,
if the words your hear,
are heaven sent.
It matters not to me,
for this bent,
as long as you still
pay me your rent.

The years go fast,
as do the days.
There is no slowing,
during this life's phase.
Get you up early,
go to bed late.
Burn the candle,
at both ends,
is now my fate.

The words in my head,
keep spinning around,
much like a new blender,
but without any sound.
So why does it happen?
My words aren't renown,
unless you have mistaken me
for an old, foolish clown.

The words I write, on paper thin,
are words I will write down again.
Why do you write words, as before?
Show them out now; out the door.
Stay away. Keep out of my head.
It's 3 AM. I should be in bed.

How do words, dull as they are,
become sharper than razor knives,
when said with your tongue;
become so hateful, at least to me.
For the words which can be said,
may case much love or be painfully
hurtful, no matter the day or time,
when said in passion,
washed down with wine.

Something odd has come
over me,
for I know not who
I be.
I see I walk on two
feet, mine,
but notice I have a pair of
crooked arms
So what do you suppose
I be,
when it is only a reflection
I see?
A new normal is now on
its way.
A far different kind than we
have today.

Whence came the wild look in your eyes?
What spark is it which makes you wise?
Where do we go from here? This place
Is not for us, unlike others, it's about face.

The loose change, in my pocket,
money to spare.
Is more like my one feeling;
one of despair.
No more control. A glass
with no wine.
What does one do, when
having this doubt?
Run away and hide, or
jump and shout?