Magazine Posts

I love you so, my little one
And hope that you, will soon agree.
So many days and years are done;
My wish is to stay near, thee.

To rhyme again, is not a crime,
Unless of course, it's one of mine.

There were times, not so long ago
When bells would ring, a mellow tone
And birds would sing, their sweet refrain.
Flowers blooms poked up, from the ground,
Without any utterance or nary a sound,
Of love.

Slap, slap, slap,
The very rhythmic sound
Of wiper blades, in action.
Dark clouds overhead,
Rain, pelting the windshield,
Bouncing off the roadway.
Fast moving automobiles,
Throwing spray from tires,
Reflecting lights from
Streetlights, up above.
Eerie lights and shadows,
Appear and disappear, quickly,
As the humming tires, make me sleepy.
Taillight's, bright reflections
Haloed, in the spray,
Brake lights, even brighter,
Cautions drivers to slow down.
Entering the city,
The softness, gives way
To a harsh, strong,
Structured, towers,
Erupting from the ground.

When day is done
And the moon has risen,
Will you please tell me,
I am forgiven?

Please give me a glass of wine
And soon, my words will be flowing
Down to the paper, for a showing,
Of exactly what I write, isn't slight
And can become, a little too trite.

Don't ask me to now succumb,
To logical and mundane issues, quite dumb,
For I ask not, that you understand,
My thoughts or words at my command.
You should see, by now, I can't
And may write more gibberish. I shan't.

A terrible thing, he said to me,
As I went to my bended knee,
Saying a prayer, for those in need,
Of salvation from Pele's huge lava feed.

It has been said, although not often,
Rewards will come to those who wait.
I must say that I might soften,
My patience, until a much later date.
Patience is a virtue, so they say,
I may go crazy and not relate,
So please hurry up and don't delay.

Come run with me, to the darkest
Corner of my mind.
Be prepared to share,
A portion of your time.

Short and quick
And to the point.
Sweet lord,
Is this the joint,
I remembered?

Paperwork abounds,
Strangling the top of my desk,
Like a great, white,
Ever groping Octopus.
Interruptions, by many;
Excuse me, it's the phone.
Oh, I'm sorry to tell you
But Mary had to go home.
It's your wife that's calling,
Are you leaving town today?
Tomorrow we have to budget.
Oh my God, let's runaway.