Magazine Posts

The beauties were dug from a package of Perennial seeds, after they
bloomed. I dug out the root and dredging in hormone powder and potting.
Now I will transfer to a spot in the garden.

A golden glow.
A low refrain.
A moonless night,
with no rain.
Away we go
to see the Sunrise,
one day more.
Red this morning.
Not a good sign,
for a storm is coming.
A weather change,
of good or bad,
said with disdain.
These words, senseless,
without reason,
when thinking about
the Winter season.

There is nothing like this, I know
When you watch a grandchild grow.
The memories of raising one's own child
Was a great experience and so
Watching your grandchild become
Who you love like a nursery rhyme,
As you see them grow, over time.

A gentle breeze blows across my brow
as I dig holes for fall plantings.
The problem, I have, with
planting European Bluebells,
is the many roots that grow,
beneath the tree. Not big,
just small roots that must be cut.
Instructions are to plant under a tree
and they will multiply.
I'm anxious to see the results
next Spring.

Sometimes when I'm writing,
I would swear, my mind
Has thoughts of it's own.

With pen in hand, I write
The words that pop into
This brain of mine.
Writing fast, scribbling here,
Unable to read the words
As they fly by, as I attempt to
Write. Oh my goodness
There is no period in sight
To end all this rambling
Prose. There. Finally one
Did appear, but what happened
To the commas?
Did they disappear?
I wish I knew, for it would
Make it clear, that my
Writing sense is not here.

Some sunny days,
Some cooler nights.
Down came the rain
To my delight.
No watering needed by me
To keep the plants
And grass so greenly,
Except the plants
Under the umbrellas.

The cold air chews through my clothes,
gnawing on these old bones.
The air crisply attacks my nose
as I shiver with the coldness.
A warm hat on my head
with flaps to protect my ears.
Gloves with a warm lining
keep the fingers writing.
I don't like this Winter chill
especially when it's still Summer.

Only had one appear
Maybe more next year.

In the name of the Father
and of the Son,
Religion may not be for everyone.
Do you believe in a higher being?
If you do, you must admit
at this moment, would he omit,
the lying racist from this place,
that most call the Human Race?

Marmalade heaven, oh let it be.
Marmalade toast and a cup of tea.
Silly jingle with simple rhyme.
I could eat Marmalade toast
Almost every time.

In my mind,
a Columbine
is so fine,
I could look at them
all the time

Summer's end is drawing near.
Flower growth, does disappear.
But here is a Poppy, that is dear
To flower lovers over here.