Magazine Posts

The wind is blowing, from the South,
Grains of sand, attack my mouth,
Pulling the hood, atop my head,
I watch closely, to where I tread.
As I step on the un-firm sand,
I return, once more, to journeys end.

Tell me please
where I can go
to escape the plight
of this deadly show.

I won't write.
I won't complain,
when there is no taste
to an acid rain,
which falls from clouds,
while we must remain
in this saddest World,
with tears, which stain
our cheeks; coursing down,
on a loved ones pain.

When I awake, at night,
will you still be there,
or must I, once more,
have thoughts of despair?

Another night to forget,
when she awakes
with the bedding wet.
Why dear Lord,
must it always be,
in the A. M.
at half past 3?

A candle flickers,
A Spirit dies.
A gasp of breath
with no goodbyes.

It's 4 am,
early morning time,
when my old mind
wants to write rhyme.
Why is my brain
wired this way?
I wish I knew,
but I cannot say.
I am happy to write,
just for you,
for at this moment,
It is what I can do.

A simple verse,
much like a curse,
is good for me
but her life is worse.
The suffering she does;
confusing to see,
causes me much hurt,
for what will soon be.

I see so much new growth
in our flower beds.
I am praying now,
for this projected freeze,
to pass us by,
for the joy I see now
may turn into a cry
if the Frost attacks the
tender new growth.
Snow is OK as young
plants handle it well.
No so much the old plants
as snow will act like an
undisciplined pruner.

For hours he fought.
Four hours he thought.
For ever the light.
Foremost the sight.
Forlorn on this day.
Forgotten, I can say.

At Last!
Four years, now past.
Four years of infamy.
Four years of pain and sorrow.
Four years of racial rhetoric.
Four years of mental sickness.

When I write down
the words,
those in my mind,
I know.
There must be a reason.
A reason
of some special kind,
but I
cannot bring them forth.
How unkind.