Poets
• 12/20/19 at 08:06PM •Poets are but a dime a dozen
Found throughout our native land,
Writing words for those who listen
To the sounds of shifting sand.
Poets are but a dime a dozen
Found throughout our native land,
Writing words for those who listen
To the sounds of shifting sand.
Windblown hair covers the eyes
of a young girl,
balanced precariously, upon tubes
of metal, rolling without sound
on rubber doughnuts.
Sunlight's brightness extends a
shadowed twin that keeps pace
with the rider.
I see blue,
but I am not.
I am happy,
can't you see,
all the joy
coming over me?
There's no grasp, that I can see
of our present life's lack of clarity,
for I am lost in this uncertainty.
The loss I feel, I can't explain,
nor will I be able to maintain
as I tire of this daily pain.
There he stood,
out by the door.
Just looking for love,
and nothing more.
It was his charming wit,
I did adore,
he was looking for love
and nothing more.
The stories he told,
with adventures galore,
he was looking for love
and nothing more.
Upon this sacred ground, he did trod
fighting for his only God.
This will keep me here today,
then he kneeled, as if to pray.
Great God in heaven, so far above
please send to her all of my love.
A silver tipped pen.
A page that is blank.
Words soon to come,
To set the stage.
A stage that holds
A lifetimes parade
Of pleasurable moments
And great times of pain.
Oh my God, I think I see,
Dementia will be the death of me.
Not because I'm infected so,
But it has attacked someone I know
The petals of the flowers that bloom,
are soon gone to make more room
for the bud that grows on the stem,
that I pray, will soon bloom again.
Past adventures, as they are
Racing the Moon
in that very old car.
Oh what a life
we had then.
I miss you so,
My old friend.
There is no noise.
There is no dread
About the sounds
Within my head.
A melodious sound
Both near and far.
It calls to me,
"Stay where you are
Don't run away
Stay here and fight;
Take the battle
Into the light."
Brighten the day
With morning Sun,
Tells the World,
Life has begun.
The moss, on this side of the tree,
is unlike the love inside of me.
Clinging to the rough Bark hide,
my soul has withered and has died.