Magazine Posts

A slight breeze ruffles the
leaf's of the vine,
as the fruit begins to
ripen and grow,
towards a day when
the harvest begins,
with the picking and crush
of the grapes.
The crushed grapes will sit
for awhile.
Soon it will be the right
time for bottling the
juice, from the vine.
Next step, is to taste
the finest of wine,
at the Rooster Cafe and Bakery,
patio, amongst the fruit
of the vine.

I am struggling now,
with my drawing art.
I cannot bring
myself to start.
To put lines on
the sketch pad.
It's not a way
to do my part
and begin drawing
as it was once art.

A haunting song,
of a lost love,
was playing
in the Diners
booth. Individual
players. For
each diner
could select
their choice
of music,
to hear
in the comfort
of their booth.

Life will always be interesting.
No one said life would be fair.
All the pitfalls and hazards,
No one said the path would be smooth.
Enjoy your life, it depends upon you
Doing all the things you know how to do.

Why do I write?
I wish I knew.
I write about me,
I write about you.
I will write about happy,
I will write, if I'm sad,
I will write when I'm good,
I won't write if I'm bad.
I write for you readers,
I will write directly to you,
For writing is joyful,
It matters not what I do,
As long as I write for many,
Not just a few.

A pathway into the mind
of cluttered confusion.
No connection to ideas or thoughts.
Sees objects but cannot identify.
Little thought, no logic, to seize on.
What must it be like to not know
you don't know or can't reason?

The wind blew;
it swirled,
pennants waved
as unfurled.
Old Glory hung,
limp and narrow,
when a gusty breeze;
Stars and stripes waved,
for the best country,
in the World today.

He rode a dark horse
on those days in the past.
Dressed in dark clothing,
away he would ride,
bringing swift justice
to those who would hide
from the lightning of his shooting,
as he fought, on his ride.
A western justice; a special skill.
Stay out of his way
if you do not want to be killed.

I tire when
I keep writing prose,
as the words fly forth,
spewing from my mind.
Writing quickly,
before my hands,
start to cramp,
like they are now.
What are you saying?
Using a lost word
which borders on being
completely absurd.
A finished product,
sometimes a few.
Don't ask me how,
I just do.

When I first saw her,
she looked like a waif.
Some one to talk with
at a leisurely pace.
An accent, a little heavy,
I can now understand
for her soul so deep
She was in command.

Starry, starry night,
a song about Vincent Van Gogh's life.
Inspired by his painting with
the same name. The picture painted,
when Vincent was incarcerated in
a mental institution.
Don McLeans lyrics and music are
stuck in my head.
"Starry, Starry Night."

My love is yours for the taking.
No pledges or promises needed.
Just be yourself, today and tomorrow.
Perhaps we will then reverse bad deeds.
What goodness, caring for one another
as this life begins to close down.
We can hold each other closely,
without shedding a tear, for lost love.