Magazine Posts

My love for you does abound.
There is no music nor any sound,
That is like my love, profound.
Tell me please, what can I do
To profess my love to you?

My mind is in a shallow grave.
No depth of soul,
No heart, the brave.
I search for words. They do not come.
Perhaps I should drink some rum.
Whimsical verse, M. Oliver says to me,
Will not happen. Lost in my reverie.

I lay in bed at darkest night,
I cannot sleep, so I will write.
Writing words that come to mind
like oil to water, I will find.
The words flow to paper and
I write them quickly, with my pen.
Words that mean so much to me,
Hoping that the readers will see,
The thoughts, that grew in the darkness
of my head now make sense or are a mess.
It is hard to write now, I approach the end
Hoping you will like this, just pretend.

The evening tide, is not for me,
For it holds life's uncertainty.
I would rather run and fail
As I escape this earthly jail.

What can I say,
What can I do,
To return you
Back to you?

The sunlight
spirals downward; caught
by the dust in the trees,
then burrows into the
piles of scattered leaves.
Life goes on, as Sun rays
spill toward the sheltered ground.
There is a golden silence
for the wind blows, not now.
It will resume in morning
hours, before the Rooster crows;.
Life is beautiful when you
hear the Songbird sing
about a song and ring
of light, from the Sun above
filled with warmth
and with love.

Sometimes, I think of you the most,
About the Trinity and the Holy Ghost.
Why is that you ask, I see?
I'm unsure, but it might be,
A hidden need, that's inside of me.

The part that prayer plays in life,
When used, reduces pain and strife,
That we see everyday, come what may.
To soothe the worries; Who's to say
If the results will end with scorn
As our life goes on, so forlorn.

I don't wish to give you pause
Or recruit you now, to my cause.
I do ask of you, on this day,
That when I speak, don't look away.
For the words that I say too
Are words of love, just for you.

There is a moaning, in the trees,
Accented by the Summer breeze.
Filled with heat from Sun above,
Is this the sound trees make in love?
The rubbing sound of a thousand leaves
Are sounds of love, among the trees.

A crashing wave
on glistening rock,
is a noise to love,
not hate the sound,
as Nature's music,
comes in many ways,
for us to enjoy
all the waves.

Are words alive?
They seem to be.
I write them down
For you to see.
Is there a meaning
For you and me?
Or just the words
That are there for thee.

Footloose and so fancy free,
Is what life was supposed to be.
What happened to this life we know
When your mind will no longer grow?