Magazine Posts

I walk the road,
I drive the car,
I search the fields,
both near and far.
Where are you now?
What is my goal?
I look for you
and my missing Soul.

A downward slide
into the gloom.
Just one more step
before the tomb.

I apologize to all on this beautiful, cold Sunday morning
for the morbid writing.

May the God in heaven,
Up above,
Know the deep intent
Of my love.
May all those you know
Be aware,
Of the one person of who
You care.

Tell me now.
Tell me true.
Is it alright
If I love you?

I am next to her, in our bed.
Reaching out to touch her arm,
to make sure, she is here with me.
A sign of weakness or being afraid
she won't be there when I awake.
Not knowing what will come next in life,
I reach out to touch my lovely wife.

A small figure with
golden hair, stands outside
the cone of light, on darkened
street. A bicycle propped up,
on kick stand, blends with
the shadows. Flash of
light, reflections of arms
waving in a warming motion.
What thoughts go through
a small boys head as he
stands alone, in the darkness.
Watching, waiting for the appearance
of another, early morning, traveler.

Clouds racing
for the far horizon,
running from
the evening light.

Wind comes puffing
in short hard bursts,
causing tree limbs
to whip in frenzy.

The Sun, peeking through
the clouded masses,
reflects the rain and
like sheeted glass
it splatters,
on the window.

The air is heavy with
much dampness when
a cold wind blows
down the street.
Not raining now.

A faded light, across the darkened room,
portrays relief from the shadowed gloom.
A brightness, I see from afar,
not realizing it is not a light
but a bright, heavenly star.

Small bytes of noise
is what I want
but wordy prose
is what I got.

I know I write of sadness
and I write of woe,
but I will tell you one thing,
I am not ready to go.
When I go there will be a sound
of bells ringing loudly, when
my written words abound.
We will be free citizens when
we vote out this selfish man.

My mind is quite strong,
so I've been told.
Sometimes when I write
words come out cold.
Why is that, you may say?
I'm uncertain my mood
and thoughts get in the way.
Some words are quite soft,
while others, harsh and hard.
It matters not their origins,
or if they're dirt in the yard.