Magazine Posts

The tears
seep from
my eyes.
There's no
sobbing nor,
any sighs.
Only memories,
I have
of you.
Why does
God take,
those you
so, love?
Where is
the mercy,
from above?
There isn't
a fairness,
is what
I see.
If there
was, he'd
have taken,
me.

I see you now
in colors of warm.
I miss the days,
when life was norm.
I hear the words,
"I love you" being said,
from morning rising,
until we're in bed.
You aren't the same,
neither am I.
When you don't remember
and when you ask,
"Where are you from?"
I am saddened,
for you not knowing me,
but I will tell you,
"I will always know thee".
Good night, my darling.
Good night my love.
I miss you dearly,
for you are my trove.

Where is the Heaven?
Where is the Hell?
Where is the place,
where Demons dwell?
I think I know,
knowing it well.
It is the place,
which I can tell.
When, my arms are empty,
you aren't with me.
You are a memory,
of what used to be.
I see your beauty,
in photos I took.
I know you better,
like reading a book.
When I look and see
you in the pictures,
like you used to be,
long will I wander,
long will I roam,
until the morrow
when I am at home.

Someone new,
tore a hole
in my Soul.
Shredded it, too.
What feeling,
now gone?
Indifference reigns.
Strong in
the community
and yet,
there is
still a
loving
feeling
of others,
outside
your family,
bringing care
and affection.
Is this
the dilemma
fated for me?
Staying locked
in this
Memory Care
Facility?
I must
wait and
solve this
personal difficulty.

Someone, many years ago,
described me as being stoic.
Stoic, the word: someone,
who does not complain or
show their emotions.
As I have aged, it seems
my emotional state is
far more sensitive.
I recall seeing my father's
eyes moisten, when I was
preparing to leave his home.
I didn't understand then.
I do now.

I've lost my resolve,
it was taken from me.
The stress was too much,
for me to see.

Forlorn the lover
who loved thee.
She is the best,
the best for me.
Long will I Remember
the love from she,
as she loved Mr dearly,
for all the World to see.

Writing your thoughts
will require some tools.
You, the Writer is expected
to follow the rules,
unless you're in Poetic mode
and willing to act as Fools.
Satisfaction, can be found,
if you avoid mental duels,
of being correct
or breaking the rules.
AKA, poetic license.

Cross were the words
flowing over her lips.
Sharp was her tongue,
sharp as a knife.
Waxen the wings,
beware the strife,
for you'll never know,
she is your wife.

How do you know,
you can't remember,
if your memory is gone?

Red the sky.
A grey dawn.
It was early,
so, I yawned.
Why do I rise
in the early morn,
when I'm not sleeping
a mind forlorn?
I worry about her
who worries about
everything and me.
Her life is fading away
as my old bones,
began to fray.

....."Taking the work and the knowledge and the discoveries of those that came before you. And, in your life time, you are going to move it forward in ways no one could have imagine. And you’re not going to get all the way. And that’s OK. Because without your effort, humanity is never going to get there...."Read more