Magazine Posts

The wind comes in short, little bursts
A Sun bathed yard and flowers thirst.
For this, usually the wettest of Spring
Is now waiting, for the rain to bring.

Swirling wind
Dried leaves dancing
Spring

I stumble and fall, letting out a scream
But then I'm awake, just a bad dream.
Getting up, showering, combing my hair
I look into the mirror and I see
Someone who appears to be ready for tea.
To the kitchen I go, so very silently
For my wife is abed, still resting quietly.

There is still time in this life
For all of us to soon see
A return of love for our humanity.

A veiling of words, I have used before,
If not quickly written, will be on the floor
Of my mind and will never more
Be seen as this random scribble, I write
Makes sense to others or is quite trite.

I sit here and recall the years past
The youthful time that did not last.
My Mother said, she altered my pants;
Taking them in at the waist, did enhance
Until back pockets touched. Laughing at this
And that memory today, as that is
No longer a problem for me.

A thread of words, comes from my heart,
Up to the mind, which tears them apart.
Sending them down to my hands, to start
Writing the emotional barbs, I'm feeling now
Of expressing myself, if I only knew how.

Spring begins that time of the year
When bulbs and perennials, begin to appear.
The first was an Iris, so very small,
Followed by tiny Daffodils, more tall.
Then came tall Daffodils, Hyacinths too,
With the scent that can over power you.
Waiting now for the Tulips to bloom
Pulling up colors to brighten the gloom,
As we recover from Winter, so readily
One of the worst, we ever did see.
Welcome back to the bursting of Spring;
Welcome back all birds, that sing.

Hyacinths
over powering scent
Sneezing

The road to that old miserable town
Is littered with all the shattered pieces,
Of broken hearts.
A love is lost; a friend passes
And again we say that all
The time in the World, matters not
For we are a frailness in this universe
That will not matter in the life
Of hate and division.
Leave us be, you most miserable wretch
For we need not your pettiness
Or hate of others.

Can you help me, relive the past
When days were long but didn't last?
As long as there was light to see,
Our parents would always let us be.
Having fun playing Kick the Can,
An exercise, as we ran and ran.
Running, chasing others, scurrying about
While listening for that loud shout
From parents, yelling, "It's time for home".

I expect there is a skill sublime
To watch my words fall into rhyme.
The words will appear, into my head
As I lay warm, within my bed.
I must arise early, before the dawn,
A need to write, while I yawn.
It is what I do, don't you see,
Though the clock shows quarter to three.