Magazine Posts

Fly away.
Fly away from here.
Leave now.
Do it soon.
Hit the bricks,
as we would say.
Scratch gravel,
White Wind,
When leaving a place.
Run far,
Far as you can.
Keep running, then run some more,
For there is no escape
From the stranger at your door.

Floating in the air
as a moth to the flame,
when he arrived here.
It was never the same,
as he spoke in riddles,
when people gathered around.
His words that he uttered
were very unsound.
"Pay to me your homage,
pay every day or I will
turn this World into pain."
He had no compassion
for woman or man
and lies and stealing was
his primary plan.
Tell them what they want to hear
but do not deliver or keep your word
and soon they will make a King out of you.

Must I be the way I am?
Can I change my being?
Must I walk this road alone?
Going through life, not seeing?

The fire has died now,
burning all the logs
into embers.
Crackling of wood,
cooling,
echoes through the room,
while noises of the
dishwasher, cycling,
increasing intensity,
drowning out my memories.

A single, lonely Moth
flits to the flickering flame
Gone

I'll tell you a story
or spin you a tale,
about what is good
about being a male.
Not much to say,
not anymore
for lies and cheating
are part of the lore.
Give me your money,
I'll take it from thee,
for I am the Man,
now give it to me.
Don't tell me about
the socialist state
for I am the one
who you must berate.
I create messes
both near and far,
the wreck of a man,
a television star.
I'm not the man,
for that's not me.
I am ignorance and bliss
that's what you'll see;
a cowardly man
a self buffoonery.

I now question what I see,
as I'm seeking some originality.

From across the ocean.
it came to be,
the loss of life,
for an eternity.
A virus so bold,
no one could see
the impact on our destiny;
of lives we've lost,
never more to be,
amongst their friends
or their family.

Rain once more,
a Spring so cold,
sunshine missing
this is getting old.

It was dark.
It was cold
and once the
story was told,
you became aware
it was old.
Not as bad
in the fold,
like a fungi,
or even mold.
I'm quite certain,
this could be,
end of life
only for me.

This island of discontent,
surrounded by a sea of loneliness,
was created, in my mind.
I am the victim,
creating my own sorrow,
ignoring those who offer
help and prayers.

Golden skin rippling
like the waters of the Nile.
Snowy, white teeth, reflecting
threads of light from your smile.
Milk chocolate eyes, blinding,
those who dare to pause.
Lilting laughter, falling
gently about my ears
for no reason. Just because