Magazine Posts

The words hang heavy
over my head,
pressing firmly,
around my neck,
weighing me down.
Without uttering a sound,
I have drowned,
in my silence.

(a little re-write from 12/2017)

A lonely tear, slides down my cheek
as I think of this life of ours.
It pains me when recalling you,
now the tear has become two.
I am not weeping, there is no more.
Just the tick of a clock.

My mind is running away from me.
I think I need a pre frontal lobotomy.
Thoughts that are stuffed in every place,
Wedged in cracks or any empty space.
I need some time. Time to think
Or I may have to turn to drink.

The sight of children playing
brings memories from the past,
of tire swings
or throwing rocks
and days that last and last.
Riding bikes, with fenders gone
while racing through the street
with nickel cones, bubble gum
and sockless, shoeless feet.

(This a redo, published in 2017)

My mind is going, that is for sure.
I am uncertain how much I can endure.
Sorry if this sounds like an old refrain
But I tire, seeing all of the pain
She goes through, every day.
It's not pleasant for her, in any way.
She keeps saying, "Put me in a home."
That's not happening...

Here I am at the Starbucks drink bar,
When you walk in, like a movie star.
Your hair was quite long, not in a bun,
The clothes that you wore, were beautifully done.
A long, thin face, with a Roman nose,
The lovely eyes, that were very composed.
My God, I said to myself, as I
Waited for my drink, standing by you,
Awkward in feeling, not sure what to do.
I did not wait there very long,
For your drinks arrived, then you were gone.

When I was young
and would eat my lunch,
I would grab a book
and read a long story
of adventure and glory.
For reading was a
small boy's passion
and was an escape
to a land so grand
it was filled
with milk and honey.
With words and visions,
my imagination was
for me a way see
the World, through
an author's eyes.

Who, who, I hooted from the tree.
I am awake and it's half past three.
Nocturnal is the best time for me.
With my night vision, I see movement instantly.
When I catch movement or hear a sound,
I'll spring from the limb, down to the ground.
My movement is quick, so please don't worry.
Pouncing on a prey, I do in a flurry.

How do these thoughts come to mind?
Where do they come from when they're unkind?
I wish I could explain this to you,
But I can't. I know they appear in my queue
And then I write them; write them I do.

My nerves are a tingle.
My hands start to shake.
I am uncertain
if I'm dreaming or awake.
A terrible thing; most unkind
as thoughts race through my mind.
What happens to us,
if this Nation of We,
becomes that beckoning light,
that flickers and dies?

Is there a roto rooter for your mind.
Words of hate, of our fellow man.
Can it purge these words, most unkind?
I wish there were. I even plea,
Clear out my mind, do it for me.

There is a gnome
living in our yard
who appears to be stoic,
trying very hard,
to be alert
when the rabbits
come out to eat.
He guards against bugs,
and crawly things,
but doesn't like slugs.
Keeping an eye on
Cats that walk by,
on their prowl.
The Cats ignore,
they don't even growl,
as they search
for their usual prey.
All in all
the gnomes
will play every day.
If you are alert,
like I usually am,
you can see
They're out of place.
The quiet gnome
have made this
garden their home,
and that's all
right with me,
as we live
together, most happily.