Contributor Posts

Sometimes, when trying to write down a word,
my mind becomes clogged. It is absurd,
when my thought wants to come through,
so I can write more words about you.

I am finding it hard to relate
and it's becoming difficult to participate,
in an election routine, I do hate.
I don't like the lies and innuendos
coming from Trumps mouth and I pray,
he loses soon and will go away.
The only thing left for me to do,
is donate to Biden and vote Blue.

I'll write of love,
an emotion so dear.
If it wasn't for love,
I wouldn't be here.
I have been lucky in life,
but not so my dear wife,
for this hideous disease,
raised it's head, to appear.
Dementia is not what you see,
in a person you have loved
for what seems like an eternity.
The slow decline; a memory loss,
no matter how hard you try,
the disease keeps progressing
through the sad, long goodbye.

I tire of writing, I really do,
except I remember, I'm writing for me,
sharing the writing with all of you.

The thoughts, coming from my Soul,
are thought of truth, not hyperbole,
for I love all my friends
and the readers who view.
I pray you will like the word
as much as I mostly do.

Sitting amongst the grape vine,
sharing a fine glass of wine.
Hers is white, mine is red,
sipping slowly, as I said,
"A peaceful ritual,
when your inclined
sipping the nectar,
of something so fine."

I said OK to her.
She said, "It's not OK,
for I'm running behind
and I need to finish my work."
A vision of loveliness,
from history past,
with a love to offer,
but it would never last.

"I look around
and the objects I see,
no longer look
familiar to me."

There is no mercy,
with this terrible disease.
It can not be,
for if there were justice,
the diseased would be me.

A Dime, a Nickle
or fifteen cents.
When I write
do you think I'm dense?
I have a brain
and then somehow
I wait and know
you will disavow,
the reason for
this pursuit in life,
for I miss you,
my beautiful wife.

I write the words that come to me.
They cost nothing; for you they're free.
My desire, to bring your interest a voice,
For if I do I will soon rejoice.
Rejoice with you my reader friends
And wait for me to make amends.

My Mother would often say, did she,
"You will be the death of me."
I challenged as a boy when doing chores
I loved my Mother, as you should love yours.

I write of sadness, my current style.
I will write for joy in a little while.
I hope and pray that all of you
Will like the writings that I do
Even if I say, please Vote Blue.