Magazine Posts

Low is my feeling,
When you're not around.
God how I miss
The melodious sound
Of your voice.

Oh, you decrepit,
Aged man,
Who winces
When you walk.
You think that
Life and limb,
Is sound
And you never
Have to worry
Or that you
Can run and play
And always have to hurry.
But slow you down,
Oh foolish man,
For life is but a gamble
And odds do not
Give favor to
Those who
Choose to ramble.

I touch you and I feel
The softness of dew drops,
Lying on blades of grass.

I listen and I hear
The sound of water,
Tumbling over rock and sand.

When you lie near me,
I smell the scent of love,
Mixed with jasmine and another
Fragrance, much like the smell
Of new mown hay.

Soft lights, flickering candles,
Music, wine and you,
Gracing these harsh surroundings
Of steel and plastic.

Caught up in a world of
Fast moving events
With no time to slow down
And enjoy.

Thoughts of love
Come from my soul
And go coursing
Through my mind.
Love is a universal
Language,
That is easily
Understood,
But sometimes,
Becomes encumbered,
By others,
Who would find,
Love to be,
All the dirty thoughts,
That are found in
a suspicious mind.

My washer broke down, that was that,
And now I'm at the laundromat.
Nice and helpful, older lady,
Not as old as I,
Helped me through the process
Of loading, rinsing, with no mess.
This is this and that is that,
Even at the laundromat.

The warmness of your body,
Rises from indentations in the sheets.
I reach out, searching
And not finding you,
I wonder.
Where did you go?

When your brown eyes are
Looking at me,
Do you like the face
That you see?
Or would you rather resurrect
From your memory,
A lover from your past?

Many people have had lovers,
Some have more than most,
While others, not having any
Have never loved and lost

The world may never know
My love for you
And they may not even care.
Others may not understand,
This feeling
And they may not try.
It doesn't matter if they do,
All that is important is
Your knowing it is you.

My arms ache from hanging on,
To that pillar of sanity that
Controls our daily lives.
It has been said, by those
Who supposedly know,
That Poets usually succumb,
To the degradations of alcohol,
Lose their grip on reality
And become insane or die,
At an early age.
I am well on my way to
Becoming an accomplished drinker
And feel, that it is only a matter
Of time before sanity deserts
Me or my liver quits,
And then it's over.

Note! This was originally written approximately 40 years ago.