Magazine Posts

Is it time?
Did it sell?
Did all things,
not go well.

These questions,
are those I ask,
about the work
on a simple task.

Through a window, darkened,
a scratching sound was heard.
Could it be coming from,
a large, aggressive bird?

Or was it from the branches,
of a weeping willow tree.
Our imagination, in effect,
when it's dark and we can't see.

Looking in the darkest night,
was our task to do.
We worked extra hard,
finding the noise, came to,

through a darkened window,
the scratching sound we heard,
was from willow tree branches,
It was not from a bird.

Water coursing.
hill and glen,
eroding soil,
then on
to rivers
and the Sea.

Life goes on,
without the
incessant tug
of politicians.

Have I become calloused,
inured to the pain
of others, here?
Is my empathy feigned?

Sugars sweet,
but you are not.
Your attitude
needs adjusting.

Why,
sayeth he,
what's wrong
with me?

Many new residents,
many new faces,
from around the country,
close to their children.

How difficult it must be,
after years in your own home,
to pick up and move across
the country.

Old friends are gone,
new ones to make.
I see many lost souls,
wandering the facility.

Long, the years,
so far beyond,
when life started,
in a scummy pond.

Is this now,
what I see,
when studying
about Biology?

Were you then,
so, pleasure bent,
your skeleton,
had been wrent?

What ugly words,
I am writing now.
My mind says, when,
my hand says how.

Can these words,
simply be,
the final days
of our history?

The horse I rode,
was soaking wet.
I had travelled far,
a journey not yet,

finished. The end
was closing down,
while I was still
far from town.

Streets were filled,
with vehicles abound,
while I kept hearing,
this screaming sound.

Stay away, please don't.
Can't you understand,
my thoughts are crazed,
Truth must be my stand.

Go back, just return,
please, I beg thee.
Don't you stand,
this close to me.

Words fly, from my pen,
to this notebook, in which I write.
Words, so jumbled, crazy now,
as this writing is now a fight.

I am writing words,
senseless they are,
for how much longer,
how near, how far?

Must I go
before I sleep?
My thoughts, shallow,
have now gone deep.

Poetic license,
isn't that the thing,
when one can write,
while voices sing?

Sing the praises,
sing with glee,
sing with fear,
sing to be.

Someone new,
who you will trust,
for my love,
is turning to dust.

Yet, when I sit,
with little to do,
my thoughts turn
right back to you.

The Ostrich, sticks his head in the sand.
If I can't see anyone, its thought.
Pull your head out of the sand,
it's the middle of the night.

Why do some people,
we most certainly know,
never listen to reason,
saying "I didn't know."

We all must listen to others,
seeking as much advice,
as possible, from others,
it will make our life, nice.

Fickle!
Is that your game?
So afraid to learn,
it is your name.