Magazine Posts

Love, come away with me,
Run through the valleys of my mind.
Let those, who say that we,
Loved only our own kind.

Yonder lies my lover,
She waits for me,
Across the flowing meadow,
Beneath a Willow tree.

Gracing all the greenery,
Sunlight falls about,
Plying shadows on her face,
Giving thought to me.

Go, I ever slowly,
Towards the Willow tree,
That she lies beneath,
Nestled in a bed of daisies,
With a coverlet of fern.

Softly lies her shadow,
Among flowers and fern,
Softened by the early light.
Love is the mood,
For this moment,
Enraptured,
By our presence.

I enjoy being alone,
Or so it seems,
For loneliness has
A good point.
You look forward,
To meeting someone.

I am such a coward,
Afraid to live,
or to die.
Brave, am I
With an audience,
Wandering through life,
Aimlessly.
Lacking direction,
My acting must be superb.

Ride the wind,
Hear the breeze,
Whistling
Through the trees.
Smell the air,
Sweet the scent,
Mixing with that
Of the sea's.
Let the sun rays,
Fall upon your back,
And warm you
All around,
While miles and miles
Slip on by, with
Very little sound.

Where did you go,
My elusive child?
Why did you run away?
Will I see you again
Or have I thrown it away?

I wonder, if the words I've written,
Sometime in the past,
Compiled and now nourished,
Come forth, in a giant blast,
Gushing from within me,
Like a fountain on the loose
Or is it just a bucket full
That's spilled and now,
Because of use,
Dries up again.

If I say I love you,
Would you turn and
Run from me?

Love is a word of wonder,
At least it is to me.
It can be used by lovers,
Friends and family.

To me, it is a strength to say,
I'll love you forever,
Forever and a day
And pray that you will,
Never run away from me.

I know of many things,
In this great world of ours
And that is the magic of
A friendship,
That doesn't come in jars.

My mind is spinning,
As fast as it can be,
For if I don't get some sleep,
There may be no more of me.

I feel helpless, when I see
You struggling and I can't be
The provider of your care.
Damn, I don't like myself,
For the weakness, I see
In me.

Words, spill from my head
Spiraling down,
Some stick to paper,
Most just hit the ground,
A fluttering, floating motion,
With nary any sound.
Such is the plight of a poet,
Who tries so hard to rhyme,
Words into meaning and
Allows so little time,
In talking about a nickel
Or one thin, shiny dime.