Magazine Posts

Dance to the full moon,
letting everyone know,
a bright day is coming,
so, gather friends for the show.

Moonlight dancing, from
a long-ago life,
was filled with romance,
when courting a wife.

Where do you hide,
when there's no place to go.
Do you head to a restroom,
or other places, unknown?

A silly question,
which pops into my mind,
for I dislike being stalked,
when I'm not inclined.

Stalked as if smothered.
is a loving act,
when your presence is not
wanted, a fact.

Giving thanks is most important,
while traversing, this life we live.
We are not perfect, but if we practice,
we can be better. I hope you enjoy.

My brain is fried,
to a medium well,
as I resume my journey,
to the denizen of Hell.

What do I do, my faith,
has been changed,
while my mind becomes,
slowly deranged?

Bats in the belfry,
a screw loose in my head,
makes me think,
there's no life ahead.

In my heart,
I know it's not true,
for in this life,
I no longer have you.

Loves in the air,
but it isn't for me.
For there is little desire,
not there to see.

I love people, in general,
I know this to be true,
but I don't see love present,
if I don't see you.

What in the world,
was I thinking of?
A new life, with another,
when there wasn't any love.

At least not on my part,
I retreated from there,
for It's not my job,
to go everywhere.

Make me home,
full of love and bliss,
but protect me, Dear Lord,
as I won't share a kiss.

Unless, of course, you,
choose to be,
the love of my life,
that works for me.

No more the fighter,
I was as a boy.
Now a lover of people,
a bringer of joy.

I am for happiness,
for all whom I see,
but I'll write for love,
when I look at thee.

It's 3 o'clock in the a. m.
I am off to bed,
and I'll dream of you,
its already been said.

I love you more,
than words can describe.
It's always a pleasure,
when you are by my side.

Write for me on the morrow.
Write for me today.
Write to me about love,
Which will not go away.

If you write within the window,
of any early, evening moon,
it means you will be with me,
ere tomorrows, noon.

A what if question.
My reply, simple,
as it was, then.

A prolific writer,
who does simple prose,
using Winters physical light.
Costly, I suppose.

What kind of man,
what kind of brain,
would write about others,
while his world would remain.

He was a happy man,
with, a sadness inside,
where memories were born,
after a love had died.

Time passes,
memories remain,
of my love, as I,
try, my thoughts, to retain.