Contributor Posts

A shadow fell across the moon
the day my brother died
and grief poured from my soul
and tore me up inside.

I can't remember, in this short life
and perhaps I've never tried,
to think about the grief and sorrow
the day my brother died,
for he was but a child of three
and should have lived, much longer.
I'm sure he would have if God had made
his body that much stronger.

The years have passed, as has the grief and sorrow
and eyes then wet with tears, have dried,
but I will always remember
the day my brother died.

Far across the meadow
Sits a shining hill.
It beckons to my soul,
When the air is still.
I hear the voices calling
And probably always will,
Till my days are over
And the voices, no longer shrill.

Before this life is over.
Before our time is done.
Relive those times of glory,
Those times we always won.

A pall of gloom hangs overhead
as darkness slides to ground
and sadness crushes life from love,
while tears fall on the breast
for an absent lover.

Morning quiet, soft as
a whisper,
silently, as it breaks from
the dark.
Lighter and brighter, slowly
the dawning,
shadows receding creep
on the ground.
Sunlight enlightens the
soft subtle colors
as darkness relinquishes it's
hold and night
slips away.

I awoke this morning.
Good news for me.
It's always good,
When awake, you see
The most beautiful face,
Laying next to me.
I love you so,
My dearest one.
No day is right
Until it is begun,
With you, in my life,
Where all is true
For a beautiful wife.
I do, so love you..

The words hang heavy
over my head,
pressing firmly,
around my neck,
weighing me down.
Without uttering a sound,
I have drowned,
in my silence.

(a little re-write from 12/2017)

A lonely tear, slides down my cheek
as I think of this life of ours.
It pains me when recalling you,
now the tear has become two.
I am not weeping, there is no more.
Just the tick of a clock.

The sight of children playing
brings memories from the past,
of tire swings
or throwing rocks
and days that last and last.
Riding bikes, with fenders gone
while racing through the street
with nickel cones, bubble gum
and sockless, shoeless feet.

(This a redo, published in 2017)

How do these thoughts come to mind?
Where do they come from when they're unkind?
I wish I could explain this to you,
But I can't. I know they appear in my queue
And then I write them; write them I do.

It's time to write.
It's time to shed,
All of these words,
Stuck in my head.
I must now write,
Quick as I can,
For words flee
Much faster than
I can put them to paper
And so you see,
If it's not written,
I won't capture thee.

In the morning hours,
sitting, with pen in hand,
words pouring forth
like mental sand.
Falling to paper,
inscribed with ink,
only I know what I think.
My mind is filled,
with words galore,
pouring out through an open door,
for my hand is starting to hurt,
as I sift through the sandy dirt.