Magazine Posts

My balance is gone,
there goes my chance,
to go on stage,
to sing and dance.
My skill sets gone,
left in the car,
no longer can I be
a singing, dancing star.

The problem with writing at 3:30 A.M.
smacks of a inane writing,
crazy thought,
rambling prose,
writing words,
why?
Who knows?
I don't
and will read again,
my personal assault
on form.
When words spill forth
with thought unrestrained.
Here I sit.
The words are mine.
I am to blame

Words from a song,
ring in my head.
"Can't live,
living here without you,
can't live anymore,
can't live"
I need a word smyth
to help, rid these thoughts.
Remove from this page,
for "I can't begin to tell you
how my heart breaks."

There was an old insect.
I think it was a Flea.
He had escaped from the Circus
and he needed to flee.
He will find a way, to leave town,
perhaps on the underbelly
of a small dogs, fluffy down.
He hoped it would be a good ride
and that his new residence,
did not to scratch an itch.
I hate to be struck by a paw,
scratching for me
even if I am just a Flea.

Out in the field,
I can only grow rocks.
A worthless crop,
but it's what I have
and all I can raise.
A child of the depression,
who will never be brave.
No longer the pillar,
no longer to crave.
No longer the person,
who's Soul you can save.

Think of the words.
The words I wrote.
They came from memory
not an election or vote,
for the words written
came when I learned by Rote.

Throw back your head,
Eyes to the sky.
Let out a howl
To quiet your nerve.
Do you feel better
Or do you feel worse?
The words now written
are found in this verse.

Have I played into your hands?
Do you control me with your demands?
Need I distance myself, afar?
I know you for who you are.

I'm awake. It is 2:30 A. M.
All I hear in my head
is the words "The Candy Man Can."
Why in the World will I succumb
to this continuous musical sound
in my ears at the early time
when I remember it was a TV Ad
using the Music not the words,
and now, my mind is benign.
Do you suppose it is a sign?

I can no longer walk
as I did as a child,
for my gait will wobble,
stumbling down an uneven path.
I better change my point of view
before I faceplant
into the morning dew.

I gave a dollar.
I gave a dime,
and once again,
a request for more.
If I respond to
every request,
for money from those.
I'll soon be homeless
and have no clothes.

A short, written note
about a missing goat,
which cannot be found,
but was spotted aground.
It's where it laid,
after the last parade.
Why write of things,
which our memory brings?
It means nothing to
any, certainly not you.
Using just four words,
is not so absurd,
I would just say,
have a good day.