Magazine Posts

Oh my Lord.
Sakes alive.
My brain
is stuck
in overdrive.
I cannot
remove words
now stuck
in my head,
no matter
what I do,
for the words
I now hear,
are "I'll never
find another you".
The music there,
my ears ring,
my musical heart
wants to sing.

There is no shade beneath the tree.
No place to play. No place to be.
Mottled shadows cover moss laden ground;
shadows of lost memories, are all around
are the thoughts of lives gone by,
thoughts of joy and thoughts which cry.
When will I see your face again?
For I am lost, within my pain.

The black of his feathers,
the cawing begins,
as I place food on the deck
and he starts calling his friends.

If there were a good way
to capture your morning smile,
I would spend all of my time
and do it all the while,
for the picture of your love
is what I see, coming from within,
as I have always loved you,
no matter the mood you're in.

Of all those I know
in this great land,
there is no one like
my old friend, JoAnne.
She brings cheer to me,
when I am worried,
about my wife , then she
will write, providing me strength
and will go to any length.
Thanks for being a favorite fan.
You are the best, sweet Joanne.
Love to you JoAnne.

Nights are dark,
empty my brain,
of life's happenings;
I can't explain.

I was 22 years old,
sitting in a smokie bar.
I had little spending money,
did not own a car,
but there I was,
now drinking for free,
as my friend the bartender
was pouring for me.
This friend, is no longer here,
for Nature has caught up
and he did disappear.
No more voice to hear,
never any oral sound,
for he now lays,
6 feet under the ground.

How lone must I linger?
Will I ever again roam,
From this lockdown World,
Which we still call Home?

I will not write
because I cannot see,
the evil of men
and their hypocrisy.

How do you write the words, as before,
when all of your words are no more?
Words which sprang to paper, easily
because, as if, they would never be,
an anti-thesis of a once, creative mind
which spills globules of words, most unkind.
I long now, for those days so galore,
which have become nothing and are no more.

The words, softly spoken
are so very intense.
I don't understand for
the words make no sense.
No sense to me now,
to explain why I write
for so many of my words
are sounding so trite.

You know the highway is slick,
as you drive down the road
and the red lights you follow,
turn to white and back
to red, spinning like a top.
My heart jumps into my throat,
while a calmness comes over me
for the "black ice", on the road
I drive has appeared as
dry pavement, which it is not
and maybe the end of me.