Contributor Posts

You are like no other woman
I have ever known.
You turn darkness into light,
with your smile.
You chase the doubt from my mind,
with your words.
You dry the tears from my eyes,
with your kiss.
You turn sadness into joy,
with your presence.
The touch of your hand,
makes it real.
For I will never know,
another you.

Cold winds are blowing me away
from you.
Reach out, give me your hand.
Hold me.
I'm slipping, ever backward,
falling.
Drifting, aimlessly.
Searching with out seeking,
looking but not seeing,
loving without caring.

Circles, ever present, reappear
again and again.
I have been here before,
over and over.
Life's circular movements,
day after day,
begins every morning.

Putting words to paper
still does not come easy,
for I try not to write
what might be offensive
to others.
I will try to do better
or worse,
it depends upon the reader.
Does it matter what I write
or if I write at all?
Who knows?
Who cares?
I do.

Softly, so very softly,
I say your name
to faceless people
and no one listens.
Alone, in a darkened room,
sits a unhappy man,
surrounded by his frustrations,
lying at his feet.
Rising above this state of mind,
seeing beauty, as it's meant to be,
talking, loving, touching people
with his life.
He becomes a better person, through loving
and by saying,
"Softly, so very softly,
I say your name,
to faceless people
and no one listens,"
except for me.

Beneath the star lit,
ice clear sky,
the leaves of summer,
fall and die.
The piles of yellows,
turn to brown,
where decay and rot,
breastfeed the ground.

Volumes of noise,
from the voices of thousands,
echoes in the concrete chamber,
overpowering the sound
of vendors, hawking beer.
Banks of lights,
cast their false sunlight,
on artificial grass,
as players, run swiftly,
without shadows.

Will I understand
my thoughts
of today,
better when
sunrise starts
the morrow?
Or looking with
a backward glance,
think and ponder
of the dreams
of yesterday, or
simply wonder?
Does it matter,
what I think
or if my contribution,
is left, unread
and it's never said,
that he loved life,
just for living?
Does it matter?

Tender words, pass in the night,
between strangers,
telling of their loneliness.
Seeking companions for the evening.
Many will find and elusive happiness
but most will remain lonely,
left alone, with their only friend,
themselves.

Life is like a tunnel.
In the beginning, darkness.
Darkness, with faint light,
in the distance.
As we travel, the light brightens.
Suddenly, all is brightness and noise.
Such must be the
feeling of life,
in the beginning,
at birth.

Some day, I'll find my place,
surrounded by loneliness,
quiet solitude will abound,
with no interruptions,
no worries, no cares.
There is such a place,
but I'm not ready for,
the cold, dank ground.

The warmth of love
comes from the soul,
gushing forth, through
words, soft spoken,
spraying outward
through peoples eyes.
Loves sweet presence
goes unheard,
goes unseen,
without a sound,
if people, the living,
are indifferent.