Magazine Posts

I think of you
as a lost soul,
for you follow me
around, as I work.
I finally understand
what it is.
You have no concept
of what you should do.
Daily routines are
no longer there,
for you to see,
so you put your trust
in my hands. Just me.

I have a ringing in my head.
Probably tinnitus,
except, when I hear your voice
or see the smile upon your face.
It's when I realize and understand
the importance of friendship.
Companionship, as we age, is great,
if you are fortunate.
Sometimes we may be destined
to live a single, solitary life,
caught up in our own unique
style of life structure.
Why is that? I don't know, but
I see it all around, where I live.
Life is what you make it.
Only you can change it.
It isn't easy and will never be,
so go make your own history.

Where goes the night,
when unable to see.
The Moon isn't there,
to brighten the sky
or bring romance,
into this World, ours,
as we languish within,
dwellings, grim and dark.
No Moonbeams, no shining Star
to help those who write
and will say to you,
"Put your faith in the Science
and stem the late tide,
for you are alone."
Hide not, you must,
for all the sadness,
will go far away now.
A Sunrise is coming,
it will brighten the day.
Don't run from this place.
Please wait and stay.

What is this life,
in which we dwell?
In an aging body,
a most fragile shell.
Bring forth the help,
I will not tell,
for my life descends,
a path to Hell.

The patter of rain,
heard on the roof,
as droplets, the same
strike the window pane.
A sharp wind blows;
the water does spray
across the patio surface,
against the kitchen door.
Life is so uncertain,
in the Nation's History...
Why is my writing,
no longer legible?
Best go to bed
as it is past 4 in the morning.
Good night all.

Why am I remembering
a time so long ago,
when, as a child,
I first tried to thread
a needle?
Grab a piece of thread.
Put the end in your mouth.
Gently wet, twist and insert
into the eye of a needle.
It was difficult to do.
During many tries,
as my hands would shake.
I would keep trying.
Some the thread ends
would be mashed or
flattened and would not
go into the eye.
Return to step one
and keep trying
until the task is done.

I am the darkness,
you are the light.
When I make life gloomy,
you bring back the bright.
You bring forth True Pride
of my doing, you by my side.

No more music videos
for me to see,
as all I hear in my head,
is Tina Turner, belting out,
"We don't need another hero."
Night after night, I struggle
again to write these words.
It is a distraction, to me.
This process of writing is absurd,
for, I not only hear words for the song
but also have visions of Mrs. Turner,
shimmering and shaking,
in her glittering skirt..
She had the movement and the voice,
as I recall. It was in the 70's and
the music was all we had in this
Land of Ours, with loud engines,
motorcycles and fast cars.
Now if this wasn't annoying enough,
Tina also sang "Proud Mary". It was
also great listening at that time in our life.

Sheep in the meadow,
cow in the corn,
I swear my bones ached,
since the day I was born,
on the dining room table,
of my grandparents house.
Delivered by a mid-wife,
no Doctor or Hospital there,
in the middle of December
and the cold Winter air.
No central heating,
no broadcast TV,
only a radio on
to hear the news
about what happened
in the World yesterday.
All of the noise
and not much to hear,
outdoor plumbing was
the current thing,
with running water,
pumped from a well

Why am I upset,
when you're talking
to me?
Are there reasons
or a mystery?
You will say things,
"there are people here,
who I don't know?"
I look and what I
see is a TV show.
You cannot discern,
what's seen on TV,
with the reality of life.
I hurt for you,
as I must understand,
there is no malice.
You don't have command
of your thoughts,
on any night or day.
Why is God
treating you this way?

When did this mystery arise?
Was there a new reason,
or the resurfacing of fear?
Why do all the questions,
pop into my warped mind?
Is there a new reason,
or is the problem, just mine?

Can a mind run dry of words?
It probably can, although it's not normal.
To stop writing? There isn't a clue,
so to this question, I answer,
"Please don't ask again as I am lost
and looking for an old friend."
Saying or writing this terrible line,
should make me humble, as I whine.
Please let me write, leave me be.
I have developed more love
of people like you.
Sorry, I can't help it for it is what
I do. Fickle? I suppose those words
describe this aged, old man
for I'm sure God has a plan, for
these rambling words of mine,
which flow over the land.
I may not know but you may
think on the subject and understand.