Magazine Posts

Never more. Never again
will I tell you
I have an ear to lend.

Forego the wind.
Forego the fame.
I ask only
for your name.
We were young,
when we met.
Asking of you,
with no regret.
My memories gone.
Fleeing the scene,
escaping from here,
for I mean,
of something thought,
is your last name;
what I forgot.
Help me now,
oh pretty please.
Keeps me hanging,
not nice to do,
dangling in the breeze.

It's getting close.
It's getting near,
when a mosquito's sound
is what you'll hear.

If I have a poetry predilection,
is it considered a poem addiction?

Do you suppose
if I were to propose
a meeting of those
with the funny old clothes,
they would accept? Who knows
for they're wearing odd hose.
I suppose I would, if my nose
invited them and they arose
to ask of the nature of those
who did lately, I suppose.

I tire of this writing style,
for words, come not to me.
My mind has slowed to a crawl,
as my body strength does flee.
Words which came along this way,
no longer do they appear to me.
Do I care? Of course I do,
for writing was a pleasure; mine.
Perhaps I need a spark again.
I'll try again, while drinking wine.

From my heart,
words came to beguile,
explaining why the
words came with style.
Asking of you, I say
you are looking
marvelous on this day.

Why do we demean a pig,
when we call someone a swine?
Is it because they're so messy
or if they squeal or whine,
or when they care not for others,
who detest how they dine?
I'll have some crackers and cheese
with my fresh glass of red whine.

The few words, I knew,
the less I would say,
except the words Hello
and have a good day.
I played by myself,
there were no other boys,
so I became the Master
of all of my toys.
I know what you're thinking,
for it most certainly would be,
I was a small child;
a child, age three

She was quite soft,
she sat next to me.
I put my arm around her,
moving as close as could be.
I remember the softness,
as I became more aware.
She was covered with fur,
there was no hair,
for my new love to be
was my first Teddy Bear.

My brain is now dormant.
No activity, to write or think,
except these little ditty's;
words so poor they stink.

You were right,
I was wrong,
So I decided
To write this song;
All of the words
Stuck in my head,
Makes me wonder,
And in its stead,
I have to decide,
Which way to go,
Or if I'll ride,
To the outdoor show,
For I will sing,
The whole night through,
If you let me see
The other side of you.