Magazine Posts

Another night to forget,
when she awakes
with the bedding wet.
Why dear Lord,
must it always be,
in the A. M.
at half past 3?

A candle flickers,
A Spirit dies.
A gasp of breath
with no goodbyes.

It's 4 am,
early morning time,
when my old mind
wants to write rhyme.
Why is my brain
wired this way?
I wish I knew,
but I cannot say.
I am happy to write,
just for you,
for at this moment,
It is what I can do.

A simple verse,
much like a curse,
is good for me
but her life is worse.
The suffering she does;
confusing to see,
causes me much hurt,
for what will soon be.

When I write down
the words,
those in my mind,
I know.
There must be a reason.
A reason
of some special kind,
but I
cannot bring them forth.
How unkind.

Please let me know,
if I do my part
and if my words
touch your heart.
I hope they do,
for it is my pleasure
to entertain you.

This love, for doing the writing craft,
is what I enjoy. Is that daft?
I hope it is not, it's very true,
for writing words, is what I do.
Some words are good, some are bad,
others are happy and then there is sad.
No matter the mood, nor the time
I will always try to make them rhyme.

There are times
when I arise
in the morn
and the smell
of the Sea,
wafts the air,
recalling the memories,
to the front
of my mind
of trips to
the beach;
a favorite time,
walking on sand,
wind in face,
while many of
your troubles will
disappear, when the
sounds of Seabirds,
in the salt
laden air,
removes the worries,
lets them all
pass, when the
wind dies down
and the Sea
is like glass.

Up in the morning,
before the Sunrise.
Time to go fishing,
as it is an ebb tide.
Down to the water
pole in my hand,
reliving the joy
of a younger man.
No worries or fears
of what I could do,
for I hadn't yet met
the remarkable you.

Be here for me,
is what I say,
for my time here,
will be going away.
Away to a place,
I do not know,
but perhaps a trace
of love and affection
in a far away land
of sweet perfection.

So many people,
on this wonderous day,
said they loved me,
yet here I stay,
locked in this prison.
A broken down dream
of what life was like
or what it did seem.

Random thoughts, fill the air,
filled with love and despair.
Be they good or be they unsound,
there they lay on frozen ground.
Does it matter? Not to me,
for I am here, loving thee.