Contributor Posts

How do you write about an emotional plight,
When your mind, in dead of night,
Wakens you and you try, once again,
To describe the actions of your fight.
Try harder and prepare before you begin.
Easier to say but harder to do.
It is for me, how about for you?

The forecast for the next several days,
Is for sunshine, cold as it may be.
It's great to see the bulbs fight away
Against all the snow and the chill
Of each of these frosty nights.
There is a special place for me
That will be under the Maple Tree,
Where I await the beauty of
The Bluebells, I planted last Fall.
I see a few small plants, perhaps
Twelve or so; I planted about sixty,
So we will see, what Mother Nature
Provides to me.

The days are gone, the nights are too,
The weeks go by, much too fast.
While month after month, won't last
And then it's a year, one and two.
Before you know it years have passed.
The kids are grown and their kids too.
The next discussion becomes about you
And where to move the aging one
Before his life is over and done.

When love does bloom
It brightens the room
And radiates up high
To rapture and sigh,
Of all the things
Not requiring rings
Of bells or flame
Or one to blame.
It's not to be,
For there's no certainty
Of our life's desire,
Until we do expire.
I wish I had
When a young lad
Expressed love to another.
For it matters not
What I have begot,
If it's kept away,
From those who say,
It will not be
Until you are free.

Talk to me, not about where you've been
Or about your long night of sin,
For I know you lie as day is night
And it matters not if all the light,
Falls upon your senseless shame,
Or who in life, that you can blame.

I did not know
that an hours sleep,
would cause my mind
to want to seep
out all these words,
that continue to creep
down to the page,
where I do keep,
all of my writing
trite and some deep,
to make a choice
of words to reap
and publish them now,
not letting them leap
to freedom and be
rich but not cheap.

Building a campfire, takes some knack
Of arranging wood, not in a stack,
But carefully building your little pile.
Take kindling and make a teepee,
A little paper, crumpled into a ball,
Touch with a match and in awhile
Flames will flicker, driving away the dark.

I was young. It was Spring.
The Seattle Times, did this thing
That challenged youths pitching skill.
A wooden frame, of rectangular shape,
With a middle cut out, or "strike zone."
The object, was to throw strikes,
Until you threw four balls.
The contest winner, was the one
Who threw the most strikes,
Before they did finally succumb
With four balls or a walk you see,
And it was fortunately me.
A big event in the eyes of mine
A picture of me throwing strikes
In the Sports section, Seattle Times.
A great memory for me to share
About a success, where they weren't aware.

Life is like a leaky boat,
With a goal to keep afloat.

Here I go,writing now,
so I can go to sleep.
If I don't, I'll nod off,
shortly after, I do eat.
What a waste, I say to you,
that are all complicit in,
no matter who your are.
Don't tell me your history,
about Bush, Clinton or Obama.
Your hate filled words
are just a poor reflection
about your hate of others
not like you.

Can I write without doing a rhyme?
Or is it my burden to carry on?
Writing for me, frees up my soul
And allows the expression of my joy
Or sorrow, of what happens in life.
A freedom to write, of what I'm thinking.
I need not publish, my thoughts to you,
But I can if I wish or if I want
To let you know, how my mind works.
At least those are thoughts in my head,
For this very moment and at this time.

Say what you want
Believe what you will
We have trouble
On the DC hill.