Contributor Posts

From whence came I, she said to me,
As I awoke from my reverie?
A lost soul is who you are,
Added a voice, across the bar,
You arrived by bus, not by car.
A spirit in the wind, is what I see,
So leave or stay, but let us be
And I returned to my reverie.

Days have come and days have gone.
The days, so bright, with coming dawn
And then, while the days went by,
We questioned answers and asked why,
Those that we loved, who went away,
Never returning at the end of day.
Leave me not
With pain so great
Life goes on although we now do pray.

The Frost is back
With grass all white.
It's still dark
Not yet the light.
The bulbs of daffodils
Have pushed up
Through the soil.
Today is to be,
Sunny, as we toil.

The fog drapes the leafless trees,
Softening the barren branches and to seize
Control over the skeletal silhouette
Transforming to a vision and yet,
Sight of the fog covered plants does please.

Tomorrow is near, but you are not.
You're far away, lost in your thought,
About the ravages of this terrible disease,
That fills your mind with uncertainties.

For want of love, a life was lost,
No matter the pain or of the cost.
What you have lost, won't come again.
Only loneliness and regret will remain.

Come walk and with me, meet
While I'm able to move my feet.
My balance, that once was fine,
No longer works and I must resign,
From the task of not walking straight
Like a man who's tipsy and not awake.

The Sun is out; light is bright.
Truly a most pleasant sight,
But soon the days, dimming light,
Precludes a glimpse of arriving night.
The night brings an endearing sound
Of crickets and frogs all around.
The music of this natural rhapsody,
Is meant for you as well as me.

When the memory fades and is lost,
Reminiscing is gone and then you must
Explain that we have been here before.
Many times, I say as I approach the door,
But there is no recognition. No more.
The pain I feel, cannot be heard
Nor described by written word.
I am saddened to hear and see
That we will not have a memory
Of enjoying lunch; just you and me.

The words that come to me
Do so, it seems, quite frequently.
Write I must, for all to see,
The struggle with my sanity.

The snap; the crackle of a fire,
A smell of smoke, stokes a desire
Of watching the flickering flame transpire.
Changing to red glowing ash and ember;
Thus bringing those last thoughts to remember.

Tips of bulbs push through the ground.
Through soil and mulch, without sound.
This is the beginning; a timing thing,
Heralding a preview of the coming Spring.