Magazine Posts

To wit,
too wit,
two wit,
which is three
ways to write,
to be right,
when I scribe,
words for thee.

Is it one
or one more,
making it four,
like saying before.
Are these words,
those which will soar
or like Poe, in "The Raven"
saying "Nevermore/"

What can be said,
has been said before,
some words are silent,
other words roar.

Colored chalk,
a grassy knoll.
Don't speak to me
of your sorrow,
for if I should
leave this place,
it's not going to be tomorrow.
You make promises
but not to keep, but to borrow,
for you lie and you lie again,
like a farmers rusty old harrow.

Sit I here, amongst all the dread
and the fear which is in my head.
A fear of what will soon be,
when I cannot care for thee.

There are too many words,
lodged in my head.
Stale, unused, hard and dry,
as if day old bread.
I need to cleanse this mess,
out of this aged, cluttered brain.
It may be best if I try to explain.
When I write, over and
over, once again,
the words are very stale
and cause me some pain.
Don't overuse words,
such as "that".
It makes your writings
so excessively flat.
Do not keep using the same word,
row after row after row
as it will haunt the writing
with no place to go.
With a train of thought, heck,
you may provide a writing
which is a train wreck.
Keep writing and let yourself go
and for your answer take not a No.

Depression: a slight dip in the surface; concave.

I have a slight depression in my Soul.
Standing with my lovely wife,
helping her brush her teeth.
A slow process, as I tell her to grab
her toothbrush. She picks up a bottle
of skin lotion and asks, "This?"
I am amazed how little she
remembers, about the day to day
tasks. My role is to step through
these requirements, morning and night.
Tonight, as I stood near her, as
she brushed her teeth, she did it well
but had to be reminded to put
toothpaste on the brush, always responding,
"Like this?" It's then, my emotional
well being, becomes stretched and I
sadly feel, like I am becoming unhinged.
We will get through this, you and I.
You will see as we can only try.

My grasp of sanity
has left with you.
From whence came I
when I no longer do.
This mind of mine,
unlike so many or so few,
wants to quit my
love for you. But as I
walk the jagged edge,
I see it's not you, it's me.
Why does my heart burn so
if I am to be the last to go.

She is in bed, quiet, unaware
of her lovely shade of hair.
Silver color, with a wave or two.
A short haircut is her new do.

Too many words crowd the page.
Don't confuse my love for rage.
I love waging a war of words,
Better than using guns or swords.

I walk the road,
I drive the car,
I search the fields,
both near and far.
Where are you now?
What is my goal?
I look for you
and my missing Soul.

My head is now spinning,
like a wind without sail,
as my thoughts of a person;
a Bulgarian girl.
I'm too old for this now,
so what can I do
but to fight off those feelings
of all this I see.
What in the World is now
happening to me?
Am I so starved for affection
in this time of life,
or is it because I can no longer
converse with my Wife?

A glimpse of your leg,
a wink of your eye,
tells me nothing about
the warmth of your sigh.
A sigh of compassion
or a question of why,
creates a new emotion,
as evening draws nigh.
A strange time, on this day
as we live in this World,
where dreams have gone away.

Go forth all of you of note.
Be assured and cast your vote.
Vote for who you trust the most,
The lord, our Savior and Holy Ghost