Magazine Posts

The impact of this life of ours
Is measured, not in years but in hours.

I am surprised by someone near
That has chosen to disappear
From this Public Social life
That is filled with hateful strife.
Why she chose that, I cannot say.
All I know is, she's gone away.

Before the sunlight makes its foray
Into what will be a most beautiful day,
The darkness of night, did have it's way
When all the Spirits, came out to play.

Happy anniversary, my dearest one.
I do recall the day all this begun.
It was in the year, nineteen fifty-seven;
A moment in mind, like it was heaven.
We didn't always see, eye to eye,
But we did our best to try
To treat each other like we would desire
And raise the bar, higher and higher.
I love you so, my dearest one,
Ever since the day this all begun.

Push away from the dock.
Use your oar.
Out on the lake again,
Not on the shore.
The smell of the water,
Now does pervade.
The early morning dew,
Sunlight will invade.
The slapping of water,
Against the boat side,
As we row and we row,
For our morning ride.

When I write for you to see,
What is happening with me,
I try not to keep words inside
But release them, for a ride.
A ride that is so full of emotion,
Reminding me of the vast Ocean,
Or if you would, a puzzling sky above.
Filled with passion and unbroken love.

Flowers surround this golden path
As the wind whips the colorful mass
Of all the Buds and Blossoms entwined.
As I walk this Nature's path of mine,
Blooms of Daffodils and Tulips have gone away.
Not returning until next years, Spring Day.
There are other beautiful flowers to see,
Shasta Daisies and Esters shine, readily.

You were a silhouette in the Sun.
I didn't know that you were the one,
Or the destiny we were waiting for.
To love, honor and to adore.
The years have passed, too quickly now.
I pledge, again, my troth to thou.

My mind is locked at this time.
I won't weep or become sublime
But will stay to this craft,
Unless, of course, I'm becoming daft.
Always possible in this day and age.
Don't like it? Turn the page.

I dislike this part of growing old,
When our friends are dropping
Like flies in the cold.
Another class mate
Has now gone away.
It will soon be my turn,
Just not today.

It was at 5, in the morning hour
When a flash of words, did occur,
As I laid in bed. Four lines did emerge,
Written in my mind; no compelling urge
To arise from my toasty warm bed
And write them down, while in my head.
Alas, they are gone, far away from me
And now lost. No longer my reverie.

When the winds blow in, from the sea,
That is the time, I want to be,
Out on the water; the bounding main.
But alas and alack, never again,
Will I return to the sea.