Magazine Posts

A box of words, stood alone,
high up on the shelf.
Words that had been used before
in another way or else,
some that were always hidden,
never being brought to light.
For they were forbidden words,
to be kept locked up tight.
Mean and cruel words, they were
causing heart ache, when
used in strings, almost everywhere.
What words are they, I hear now?
Blasphemous words, you say to me.
Well please explain how,
the words I love to write with Pen,
on a ruled, bound up book,
when I am writing now,
the last time I did look.

I don't know you,
so I should not care,
if your life is
filled with love or despair.
Realistically, I do
think about you,
for my compassion
and empathy, every day,
is to pray for your Soul
in my own unique way.
You can't be here
surrounded by laughter,
when every day there
is a new World disaster.

I write for my readers,
that's what I do.
I write for my readers
exactly like you.

When you hit "Like"
or comment a few,
I feel inspired to write
for those, just like you.

Treplion's last speech in Chekov's , the Sea Gull.
"I'm coming and more to the conclusion
that it's a not thinking at all of what form to
choose, writes because it comes pouring
out from his soul."

I'll be better this year.
That's what he said.
Father Time just sat there
Shaking his head.
You won't do better
Unless you believe,
That climate change's is needed
in this World, where we breathe.

Across the fields of golden grain,
among the rolling hills in view,
I feel the warmth on my back
as the Sun comes into view.
On this late Fall day,
I am in my truck, a 39 Ford,
ready to move close to the Combine,
that will soon be harvesting
the heads of golden wheat.
Driving along side, with grain filling
the truck bed, while the Combine
discharges the wheat stalks or chaff
out its back.
We stop just ahead, as I have
a full load. Drive out from the
field, over rutted ground to the
Main road, then back to town
where the Grain Elevator is.
I get in line, waiting my turn,
then on the scale to weigh my load.
Up to the elevator, where I use
my levers to raise up the bed
and dump out the wheat. It goes
down through the grate and into
storage to await processing.
The truck bed now empty,
I've dumped my whole load.
Back to the highway, then to the field,
as I repeat this task once more with ease.
Happy am I at the age of sixteen.

I tire of using a hateful word,
the writing of which, is so absurd.
Please Lord, I humbly beg of you,
help me; do what I need to do.
For the love of my beloved one,
is to bring, joy and some fun
to her for things she can see,
knowing they'll be lost in her memory.

Hello, my lovely,
I said to her,
for her beauty
my heart did stir
and small talk poured
from my mouth.
As I rambled on,
with thoughts all gone,
as if numbed by Gin
and when no sound,
came from her lips,
I took a look, again
and found that I
had been talking to
an attractive mannequin.

Repeat

I need a reel,
tied to a thread,
that's hooked to those words
locked in my head.
A reel that makes nary a sound,
pulling the words, trite and profound
from the depth of my mind,
out to paper at hand,
helping me write, on demand.

I know the sound ahead of me.
I know it very well.
It is that slippery road,
Descending straight into Hell.

A flashing of light
across the night takes
takes me back to those
days when Searchlights
galore would brighten
your mind that a
new store was opening.
No TV, to speak of,
a limited choice,
to watch Kukla, Fran and Ollie,
followed by Stan Borenson
and perhaps some news.
One channel, King 5
was what I recall
with fuzzy black and white
pictures, no color at all.

A lonely tear ran down his cheek,
through his beard so white.
A wayward tear kept sliding down,
during this sad and lonely night.
The thought of love that will be lost,
no matter what you tried to do.
A thought so sad of she, on this day;
her life would soon be through.