Magazine Posts

A beautiful morning
of a wonderful day.
Great to see you
hearing, "Happy Tuesday".

Words, pour forth,
from out my brain.
Describing it,
as a runaway train.

No reason to,
no rhyme to make,
words flow freely,
mine to take.

Put the words,
into a sack,
return to the sender,
no postage back.

Crazy words, echo,
I cannot see,
I don't know,
if they're from me.

Find the day.
Take it back.
Select another,
a different tack.

It was good,
to see you today,
in spite of being
30 feet away.

No matter the reason,
I can't explain why,
a familiar face
which catches my eye.

You stopped by later,
saying "Good morning, hello,"
a delightful surprise,
for this old fellow.

Spawn of Satan,
you have cast our spell,
upon a loved one,
doing it quite well.

I sat by my wife,
she wants me to stay
with her,
every second, every day.

Time, slowly passes,
the swearing begins,
"I hate you, you SOB,
never want to see you again."

How does a beautiful person,
change so quickly, this way?
Such hateful emotions,
I should just go away.

Why are there thoughts,
still stuck in my head,
as I'm trying to sleep,
on top of my bed.

I am tired now,
having nothing to say.
Please leave me alone,
my mind is in dismay.

Whence came I,
buffoon, which I am?
Are my emotions, playthings,
for this wretch of a man?

Please spare me the trouble,
don't waste my time.
If you don't like me,
I'll sit here and whine.

Things I love to do.
Things I love to say.
Depending on thoughts of you
and my own disarray.

The days have flown into years,
memories faded from view.
I'll remember you, always,
long after life is through.

When I tripped and fell on the cement,
you could hear my voice, in lament.
Wondering, if anyone had seen me fall,
no one around, no one at all.

You think you know me,
because you know my name.
I have news to tell you,
life's not a game.

There are games, plenty,
and could name a few,
but what is the purpose,
if I don't know about you.

I am no "straight arrow."
Just a guy from the "sticks"
who has thrown everything,
from stones to bricks.

Don't get me wrong,
I didn't smash and grab.
I worked with a Mason,
one summer. My job, on the
ground was to throw bricks,
up to the roof, where he would
pluck them from the air,
stacking them before he
troweled "mud" or mortar,
then constructed a chimney.

It happened one morning.
I can't remember the day or time.
My writing was chaotic
and wasn't expecting a rhyme.

And, yet there it was,
simple as one plus one equals two.
I wrote down my words,
again, thinking of you.

Why the rhyming of words?
It wasn't making any sense.
I may not be the smartest,
but I know I'm not dense.

Over the years, I wrote,
as an idea popped in my head.
Words mean life to me,
they do now, as I've said.

Many years, gone by, now.
Words still flow, sometimes,
without any rush or hurry,
not even nickels or dimes.

All the pain,
in this late life,
moving toward an ending
uniting us as man and wife.