Magazine Posts

Be the candle,
not the flame.
Don't let others
pass the blame
to the press,
who must remain
outside the lies
and to explain,
what is happening
to our Nation,
surely must be
an aberration.

Is this what our nation
will come to be?
Home of the brave,
land of the free,
except, if you don't
look just like me.

Here I am, sitting,
with all these words
in my tired head,
when I really should
be back in bed.
"What's so compelling?"
Someone once, asked of me.
To write down
these words, so completely,
before they become
a piece of your
imagined vision,
that was written clumsily,
without the precision,
of being a completely,
sloppy rendition
of words, all plastered
together with rapid
hands and fingers,
with no errors
that will linger.

The dawning of another day is here.
The hurts of yesterday are still near.

Here I am, on this special day
Sitting and searching for something to say.
Words are much harder, in early light
But come in torrents, late at night.
Starting with giving thanks
To all the Sisters and Brothers
Aunts, Cousins, Fathers and Mothers,
For the Veterans who live
And for those who died,
That served our country
To keep us, all safe and free
From tyranny and of debauchery.
My prayers go forth,
To all of the others,
May you have a peaceful
Thanksgiving Day, with no misgiving
And remember it's the season of giving.
Prayers to all.

Did you ever wonder?
Were you not aware
of the little dog,
that thought he was a bear.
He was a dreamer
that much you could see.
He marked his territory
by whizzing on a tree.
This little dreamer had
a notion he was bad,
but in reality
he was very sad.
He had been born
in a puppy mill
and could never see
beyond the mental fence,
as he searched to be free.
Then one night a storm arose;
the lights went out
and the gate did open.
He was so afraid, running hard
and suddenly he was free.
I'll run hard and hide
where they'll never find me.
It wasn't long
and then he found,
someone to love him so.
That was the story
being told from there.
He no longer thinks
that he is a bear.

If I think about, what is to come,
As I see you go through the agony
And observe, the activities, at home
That you could do so easily;
Become so difficult, for a good outcome,
As you try so hard, to say to me
The words that no longer come
From the depths of lost memory.

There once was, a young fanciful goat
who had bought a luxurious coat.
Not muted or striped but light grey;
a coat that he wore every day.
Named by his owner as, Billy the Kid,
he liked to play and certainly did.
Billy liked to run, jump and gambol,
as other kids would always extol.
One day, when he was extremely bored,
he decided that he wanted a skateboard.
Billy was a very industrial talented one,
so he borrowed from his owners Son.
He made a most modern board to
show off his skills to me and you.
He went on tour to do tricks and bring
fame to his family, that very next Spring.
All the kids, that he knew there,
showed up and he was cheered, everywhere.
He was to all a bright shining Star,
no matter the place, near or far.
He skated away that following Fall,
saying "I'll see you at the shopping mall.

Here sits Lenny the Loon,
under the light of the moon.
Hatched from an egg
I'm sure you see.
Not born of a Mom,
unlike you and me.
A difference that's not
really wasted on he.
A story of a life,
for all us to see.
A story that could
aptly soon be,
one of the many humans
so much like we.
From the color of his feathers
to the shape of his beak,
can you please, just tell me
about his webbed feet?
He's not one of us,
that's plain to see,
so he doesn't belong here,
some old goose said,
take way his children
from the Mothers who dread
said the old goose,
we'll keep them with others,
so they never get loose,
nor see their Mothers.

If I were you
and you were me,
would I see freely
what you think of me?
Would you see the
love in my eyes
or hear my frightful cries?
Would I know you
as you know me,
in this abstract of uncertainty?
I don't know.
How about you?

I feel my life,
slowly ebbing away
and wish to return
to an earlier day.
A day where my emotions
are not in disarray.
Please understand me,
as I write in this way,
what is happening to me,
is not mine to say.
Oh please, my dear Lord,
help, by letting me pray.

I am a stranger, to myself.
I suppose that I will always be.
For I know not the answers,
About this, so called reverie.
Help me understand, what's happening to me,
For this moment; time will be set free.