Magazine Posts

Long were the boats,
which anchored in the Quay.
Anchored together,
so they wouldn't float away,

On the shores,
of Lake Gitchigume,
where children would play,

came a spirit,
who would not stay away.
A kindred spirit,
of a native man, at play,

who remembering,
his youth,
like only he can.
Times were fresh not uncouth.

The access to the
land would always be free,
for it belonged to all,
even you and me.

Fear not the spirit,
for he was the host,
representing us all,
as our own human ghost.

When the Owl, leaves its nest,
beneath the Willow tree.
When all of the animals,
begin their migratory flee,

it will be time to resurrect,
how our quiet life, used to be.
When do you suppose, the love of another,
will bring forth a new reverie?

Wind blowing rain sideways,
under the tree where I set,
making me wet all over.
Now I was wet.

I needed to dry off,
so off came my clothes.
My skin usually white,
was the color of a pink rose.

A towel from my backpack,
rubbing myself dry.
I added pants and sweater,
now I'm ready for a new try.

It was early, one evening,
When I heard a strange call,
echoing from the tree line,
then off the garden wall.

A sound, I can't seem to recall,
except it was a strange tune.
It was the sound of a waterfowl,
a solitary, well crazy old Loon.

Early evening,
before the sunset,
a strange phenomenon occurs,
you may never forget.

Angels and Devils,
on horseback, rode,
searching the villagers'
humble abode.

Another story, before
the early dawn break,
would search again,
for more souls to take.

Angels and Devils,
on horseback, will ride,
through the masses of humanity,
down by their side.

Shutter your windows,
board up your door,
for the spawn of the Devil,
will return for more.

A long, long road
of tasks undone.
Why do you think,
you are the only one?

A road, well-traveled,
has many hazards, in store.
Count the potholes,
and look for more.

Potholes are like,
mistakes in life,
as losing your job,
or divorcing your wife.

Life isn't easy,
as you have now heard.
Why are there so many,
who never get the word?

A garden pathway,
as I pass,
seeing flowers, lovely,
as if made of glass.

Colors radiate,
as an outward beam.
A beautiful setting,
so very serene.

Tucked away,
inboxes tall,
for your eyes to see,
that isn't all.

No one cares,
if you're hurting.
No one cares,
if you're not.

The only one
who cares for you,
is yourself,
for you're all you've got.

I have a feeling,
I'm living on borrowed time.
Everything was great,
very sublime.

Was feeling great,
until this morn.
My stomach aches,
do I need to be reborn?

One day the Sun,
began rising in the West.
Understand this new priority.
What happens to the rest?

The world re-oriented
on its plane,
wobbled like a top,
and I became insane.

No rhyme or reason,
for me to see this way,
except when my mind,
detoured and went astray.

I won't write again about tomorrow,
a day which may never come,
for it's about one's future,
I, for one, have none.

There will be no more tomorrows,
for me in the weeks to come.
I know not when that will happen,
I simply hope and pray there will be one.