Magazine Posts

Where is the noise?
Where is the fury,
when we hear the wind
in a big hurry?
No thunder; no lightning,
as you continually said.
Why? Did you guess wrong
once more?

He walked or swayed,
like the oldest tree.
His limbs were thick,
rough and scarred,
beneath his own Canopy.

A wall of time.
A pane of glass.
Where is love
in our life's morass?

Harvesting hay,
providing the feed
to horses and cows,
it's what they need,
to provide dairy
or win a great race.
For tilling the land,
to raise crops
for the hungry,
as we harvest in full,
providing abundance,
for one and for all.

The wind,
like a whisper,
passes over the hill,
where we first met.
A meadow, plush
with wild fbeauty,
kissed by April showers.
The color so rich,
against the bland trees,
makes me feel refreshed,
again and I want to see,
you and your smile,
a delightful sight.

A mop,
a broom,
unkempt the floor,
with needles
and dirt;
so much more.
Sweep now.

Life was good.
Life was grand,
until the earth
turned to sand.

Where goethe my soul
on this somber day,
of low clouds
and skies of grey?

No matter where I travel.
No matter where I go,
I will always have my memory
of the beauty of you.

When your head is spinning;
your brain is numb,
for the love, now lost,
tore a hole in my heart.

A tubeless tire.
A rusty chain,
piled atop
a bicycle frame.
What a story,
this must be,
with missing parts
in a weedy patch
of dried hanks of grass.

A lost horizon,
the crashing Sun,
which sinks into
the day of oblivion.