Magazine Posts

Out in the side yard, under a tree,
The Hellebores covered with snow. I can't see
Their beautiful flowers and this saddens me.

I don't remember but I do suppose
That when happiness is spoken, everyone knows.
When love for another, is greater you see,
And matters not for you or for me.

The melodious laughter
A most wonderful sound
Of the children playing,
In the snow, all around.

The tinkle of ice in a glass.
A splashing of liquid, pouring past,
With alcohol or even with out,
It tastes good enough to shout,
Here's to life, fickle as it may be,
So here's to you and to me.

Animal tracks,
I see in the snow,
Causes me to wonder,
Where did you go?

An empty room, no light to see,
Can bring a small fright to me.
It's not the darkness I fear,
My love for you is to be near,
So talk we can do, so easily.

Write the words down, they really matter
As they spill from my head and do clatter,
Down to the paper, of a journal I use,
To capture my thoughts and to peruse
All the words that are part of this kind
That only I hear, inside of my mind.

It is sunny; in creeps the night
To create the time, we call Twilight.
A time to reflect upon events today,
Some we will remember, most go away.

I'm talking to you. I hope you relate,
But I was thinking of a terrible date.
I was young and this was my first one,
That I was so nervous, I was close to undone.
My speech was full of words and stammer,
Felt like I'd been hit with a hammer.
Stumble, I did but in a literal sense,
Thus was my adventure and first romance.

Internal feeling are the light,
Flickering, dimming, in the night.
Try I must to stay here close,
Although my feelings are morose.

No one will tell you, I do suppose
They know where the Red Fern grows.
High in the mountains, into the dale,
Following the path of an unmarked trail.
Down through the valley, into the glade,
It's a dangerous journey that you have made.
Past the shadows, down by the spring,
What's seen next, is a beautiful thing.
Moss covered rocks; downed logs in repose,
This is where the Red Fern grows.
Magical indeed is the sight of the scene,
Where the love of another, does not demean
What should be years, months, days and hours
Of caring for others, in this World of ours.
This wonderous place of beauty, I propose,
That all see where the Red Fern Grows.

Inspired by the Novel, Where the Red Fern Grows
By Wilson Rawls, 1961

I hear an echo of words from the past.
I'm writing them down; as they come too fast.
Down to the paper where they stick like glue.
Some are good but they number a few.
Words can be like chaff in the hay,
Some last forever, some gone on this day.
The echo of words, I hear in a song,
Brings back the voice of my Father
Who for many years has been gone.
Words that are not laced with fear
But old words that I hold most dear.