Contributor Posts

A hole in the ground.
A post in hand,
asks the question,
once more, again.
Should I flee
or go away,
to a life
of lonely exile?
Not for me.
Not my style,
for it won't
make me smile.

A maddening sound.
A mournful noise
on this morning,
the missing toys,
when a child,
much like me,
would be selfish;
not sharing joys.
Play by himself,
no other boys,
now a loner.
What a mess,
it's my life,
I now confess.

I sit, with pen in hand,
all the words I have written,
have come with no plan.
No plan to follow.
No plan for me,
for there will never
be more hypocrisy.
Two hours sleep,
is not the way,
to start off the month
in a sleepy, tired day.

When the words, in my head,
gather anew,
to form into sentences of one
or a few,
with some sensible writings of
more than two,
be eroded by use and time,
as they do,
for my life's simple pleasure,
caring for you.

When I was a young child,
I loved to explore, the creek
which passed by our back door.
The sound of the water, over rock
and stone; the attack on my senses,
as water, gurgled and splashed,
are memories, from a long ago past.
Turn over a rock and you would find,
a little creature; a periwinkle.
It's shell was hard; sand and grit,
to protect the larvae, living within.
They hatched in the Spring, a May fly,
and the fish, in the stream, ate again.
There were little fish, a "Bullhead"
looked like a small catfish, to me.
As my recall is slipping away,
but I have remembrances, mine,
which I will recall again and again.

The years go fast,
as do the days.
There is no slowing,
during this life's phase.
Get you up early,
go to bed late.
Burn the candle,
at both ends,
is now my fate.

The words I write, on paper thin,
are words I will write down again.
Why do you write words, as before?
Show them out now; out the door.
Stay away. Keep out of my head.
It's 3 AM. I should be in bed.

I awoke with a start,
as I heard my name,
but it was the wind,
blowing rain against the window pane.
Remained in bed, so did I,
as the wind made a noise,
like a small child's, sad cry.
Arising from bed; up this time,
looked out the window glass,
seeing the noise maker, who
made another most mournful mew.

As a small boy, I was never aware
of the dark, at the top of the stair.
I would explore the mystery's of Grandpas' house
much like the exploration of a curious mouse.
Exploring the old house could be a scare,
when finding the dark at the top of the stair.

The inner most workings
of this; our mind,
are difficult to describe,
no matter the time.
When a disease attacks,
this brain of ours,
we may lose memories
or the names of others.
The loss of direction,
in your own house,
while the names
of objects you don't know.
Oh what a loss
it will soon be,
for all thoughts,
have now left thee.

Accidents can happen,
is what they say.
Who is they?
I hope and will pray
to live a free life,
for the rest of my day,
though it will matter not
when my love goes away.

Do you tire of the "bramble"
and the long cacophony of words?
When my mind begins to ramble
and my thoughts become absurd,
when the words no longer come
as they did the year before,
while my creative process,
is missing. Nothing more.