Magazine Posts

The well is empty like my head.
There are no words, but instead
Just a desire to go back to bed.
My sleep is long but I toss and turn
For trying to sleep I must earn.
I know if I do not get some rest
The sleep I'll get may be a test
Of my will, or well it will depend
Upon what you say, my old friend.

I'm having a difficult time
trying to write, as all
the words and music are
rattling in my head. " A little
more conversation.." in my brain.
It is something I can't explain.
A little more thought, a little
more work and the words
I write will pollute the air.
I am trying to breathe.
Sorry for the rant. I thought.
There I go again, thinking, if
I would write what is now
in my head, I could free up
some space and write my
words instead.

I need you now.
I need you to see.
I am not the wretch,
You thought I would be.
I am better than before.
I wish there was a way,
I could divide in two,
For I have so many things
I now need to do.

It takes a steady hand, it will
to put a thread through a needles eye.
In my youth, I acquired this skill
but find myself, on this day
unable to put the thread away,
into the eye, no matter how I try.
With shaky hand and a tremor there,
I find the thread goes everywhere,
except where it should, through the eye
and so I continue to try, try and try.

I live with your Mother,
she has a wandering mind.
If you do not call her
she'll think you are unkind.
Our days are numbered
on this Earth divine
so please call your Mother,
any old time.

A floor,
a door,
four walls,
will do.
A place
to meet
with you,
says who?
I miss
your smile
and say,
stay here,
all day.

He was quite little.
He was quite small.
He was the tiniest dog
And that wasn't all,
For his spirit brave
Against the World.
No rant or rave,
For this stray boy
As he was only
A small stuffed toy.

The long and short of it all is,
I don't care for this mental whiz,
that tells us the Spanish Flu of 1918,
is what ended WWII, which started
in 1938. Sweet Louise, as someone said,
is this man now brain dead?

I sometimes wish, I had been born blond.
Wait; I was that color when I was young.
The hair I have, is now quite grey,
It could be white, some people say.
I love my hair but it is so fine,
It floats in my face, time after time.

A Mind can be a terrible thing
for the wildest thoughts it can bring.
Do you agree? Can you not see
when sometimes it gets the best of me?

Can you be in love with another,
And another and another, not your Mother?
Does this make you, "Fickle" or to be,
Just a lost Soul, in our humanity?

A time for now
A time for then.
I'll tell you how,
Just don't pretend
To know nothing about
Crazy Donald with rants,
Raves and lies he shouts.
He cares not, but he pants
With insults while he pouts.
Grow up, you spoiled Brat.
Your not a King
And that is that.