Contributor Posts

The water swirls and gushes
Over rock and stone.
I stand on the bank
But I'm not alone.
There are trees of Pine
And some Bramble bush,
While the water moves
Quickly, with melodic rush.
I stand there, fly rod in hand
Making cast after cast,
Seeing where the fly will land
In the right spot,
The back of the eddy.
With fingers touching the line,
I await and am ready,
For the tap, from a fish,
That wants this fine morsel.
If it bites, I'll have my wish
And soon be on my way,
With a most delectable fish.

A midnight meeting; a rendezvous,
A quiet setting, for me and you.
Excitement as blood coursed thru my veins.
The sight of your beauty still remains
Locked in back of this aged mind,
Recalling you. Your exotic way,
To this day, I must now praise,
The friendship, that was ours to choose.
Still remains here, win or lose.

Rain falling
Puddles all around
Wet feet

A beautiful flower
Appears. I'm unaware
Of where it came.
Friendly bird?

There are some stories, quite old,
About going prospecting for gold.
I'm sure you have heard them before,
As they are now part of Western Lore.
Searching through forests and bare hillside;
Walking most always but an occasional ride.
Searching and searching in rocks that erode,
Looking for the very elusive, "Mother Lode."
Hearing these tales, while around a fire,
Trying to determine if true or a liar.
No one will tell you, where it is found.
Only one place, deep in the ground.

I believe my Soul has died
And the remnants are locked inside,
My heart and chest, although I tried
To be the person you wanted.
Now I'm a wreck and broken hearted.
Pure dribble I say to all
You aren't seeing my worst at all.

Of all the things that I see,
There is nothing like a Honey Bee.
A bee that toils for hours and hours,
While flying about to blossoms and flowers.
The packets on his tiny legs,
Accumulates the pollen that he drags,
From flower and blossom, flittering there
And returning to his hive, with great care.
The pollen is transformed into golden honey.
Late in the Fall, it will be sold for money.
The Honey Bee has something to dread
If it stings, it will soon be dead.
For unlike a Hornet or a Wasp
The bee's stinger is barbed and lost
When it stings to protect the hive
And the cost is it's life.

It is a big event when you pull the
drivers license of the one you love.
She hasn't driven since 2010.
I did all the driving, way back then.
The lung cancer diagnosis, in two zero one three
and resulting treatment brought her
to her knees.
Cancer free all these years
but was diagnosed with Early onset Dementia
in mid January, 2017.
She is a strong trooper, that is for sure
as I watch her dailytry to endure
all of the garbage of this terrible disease.

A very long time before you and I,
Before the look in our Father's eye,
There were people who lived and died
To protect this world from the genocide,
That had risen up from a Nation's floor
And taken lives just like before.
They knew it then. We know it now.
No more killing, that must be our vow.

My brain has been given an enema.
Words pop out quicker that I can write.
No meaning or correlation,
Nothing in sight. Just write
As fast as I can and clear
The clutter, in my mind.
Nice words, cuss words, perhaps some kind.
It matters not, just don't leave
Words behind. It makes no sense
As words flow free. I can't think
Of what they will be. Simple words
Or ones quite complex. It matters
Not one little bit. I do need
To write slower and clearer, if I am
Going to read these later. It may
Be a folly to see, what these words
Mean to me. I make no attempt
To rhyme or tell you it's good for
Mankind. No lie on anything for
You to hear as I desperately claw
Out these words and be free of all
Hidden thoughts or when it goes,
Emotional dither, the word hither, tries
To appear. I wish I could just shut
Off this spewing of words, that mean
So little or just let them go somewhere
In the middle. Goodness me, she used to
Say; the words are prolific on this bright day.
Enough my hand is cramping up quite a bit so
I'm thinking it is time to now quit.
What gibberish I write, without any doubt.
I won't be running or whooping about
But I will sit silently, under a tree
And thank the Lord, I have thee.

What an outburst of words gushing
While I write fast to grab the words rushing
Down to the paper, here on the desk
And not as jumbled up as all the rest.

Is this the death rattle of a
Senile mind? Or just a random thought
That escaped from this memory pit
Of lost words, long forgotten?
Memories that spill out
In the dead of night.
I wish I knew, for I do not
Understand or know the plot
Of life, that we savor so.
I suppose I could just let go.

I was a Cur and lived on the street.
Running and hiding, I'd make my retreat.
Eating when hungry was a sweet luxury
But more often than not, it wasn't me.
My ribs pushed through my aged skin,
I didn't realize the trouble I was in.
Then one day, out of the blue
I met a person; not someone I knew.
She took me home on that very day,
Giving me a bath; washing the dirt away.
Having a home and loving company
I knew at last, that I was now free.