Magazine Posts

I love this life,
I really do,
especially when
I'm living with you.

Here I go again,
down this old path.
Should I be serious
Or just have a laugh?

Words that begin flowing
towards paper, with pen in hand.
Are words left unspoken,
just heard in my head.
I write these thoughts, unthinking.
Free of the fear of failing,
when I send these words to thee.
Where am I now? What's next to do,
but to shelter and protect, my only you.
Where ever I go, what ever happens,
when I am around you,
it is so good for me,
I hope it is for you too.
For you are the one I love, every day.
I hope that this feeling never goes away.

My ears are ringing.
It's ringing; not a buzz,
while my head feels
like it is covered in fuzz.
Perhaps it's my body,
giving me a hint,
that my old grey matter
is full of old lint.
It's surprising to me
as my mind does recoil
and what I see in the news
makes my blood boil.
The ignorance that is seen,
in this great land,
is in both parties as they
await the command.
Get out to vote.
Vote where you can.
Vote for your choice,
Woman or man.

She said to me,
"if I tell you to go,
would you just leave?
When you look at me,
I see the sadness, you feel
and know you'll be
better when I'm gone."
I said "Stop don't talk like that
for I am here for you,
no matter what you might do.
Please don't worry about me;
we will manage this, please agree."
She looked and nodded at me.

The wind in the valley
is blowing quite hard.
Blowing all of the debris
out of our yard.
That's not all bad,
if you know what I mean,
except the neighbors debris
is now my yards scene.

My hat was on
and then I said,
I feel the rain
on the back of my head.
Is your hat waterproof?
they asked of I.
It must not be
for my head isn't dry.

Deep in the forest,
where you'd never go,
there dwells a creature,
you may not know.
A creature quite short
or stocky to see.
A grumpy one certainly,
it reminded me of me.
His name is Badger,
He roots through the soil,
looking for some food
before it does spoil.

She came up to me.
her eyes filled with dread.
She had been sleeping,
The sleep of the dead.

A sleep so deep;
no thoughts, no dreams,
no tossing or turning,
not what it seems.
For centuries it's happened,
that is well known,
the deepest of sleep,
when tired to the bone.

Why in this life,
that used to be swell,
has become so much
like a living Hell?

Rough are the words
I write for thee.
Covering many subjects
for you and me.
Where do these words
come into line?
From out of the depth
where words are entwined,
from the tip of my toes
to the depth of my Soul,
entertaining you and others,
has always been my goal.

Oh you poor little slug,
you're not an insect,
nor are you a bug.
You'll chew all the leaves
of the colorful Primrose.
Would you please stop,
or is it anything goes?
Out comes the Sluggo
or the grey goop Deadline,
to keep you from eating
those pretty flowers of mine.