Contributor Posts

Words, that I thought, were long dead,
Are now swirling around, in my head.
My mind is like and empty bin.
Words go out and come back in.
Words, mostly of love and sometimes grim,
Are fat and meaty or very thin.
What meaning, does that provide to me,
Is thus: What will be, will be.

What poets feel not, when they make,
A pleasure in creating,
The world, in its turn, will not take
Pleasure in contemplating

Matthew Arnold  (1822 - 1888) English poet and cultural critic.

Why do I, care about you?
Must I do, what I do?
Life's mystery, of love and passion,
Fortunately, is still much in fashion.
The love for you or another,
Set up, when young, by our Mother.
Life's mystery, grows, each and every day,
Bringing love, along with heartache, today.
What's important; life must go on,
When the memories of yesterday are gone.

When will it be over,
When will it be done?
Will I, go on caring,
Over you, my only one?
Questions, arise in my head,
About what was to be.
Questions, so full of dread,
Answers, don't come to me.

It's okay to wonder,
It's okay to share.
It's okay to ponder,
It's okay to stare,
At peoples faces.
People, of all races,
Some, never seen before.
All with different customs,
All from another shore.

Writing words, about all of the dread
That tries to control, my confused head.
On this occasion, I'm easily led
For it is easier done, then said.

How much more water, does it take
For shrubs and flowers thirst, to slake?
This heat wave, we are in today,
Is stressing my plants, I must say,
Less heat is needed, on this day.
When will the weather, stop the pain
And provide us relief, with some rain?

Our minds are such a wonderful thing,
Never knowing the thoughts that spring
Forth to amaze and provide the solace,
That makes a life, you can embrace.

Sitting on my Isle of discontent,
Evokes thoughts of self pity.
Morose, sorrow, interspersed,
With self doubt.
Thinking of things that might have been.
Accepting, rejecting, glad for change,
But not wanting it.
Depression, ever present,
Comes, without calling.

These words, I write, are just a token
Because, I swear, my head is broken.
Words that usually, jump right out,
Stay in my old head, rattling about.
This excuse is so much like a clock,
I swear, I now have writers block.

There are still words, stuck in my head,
That are of love; not of dread.
I must put them on paper, now,
As soon as my hands, will allow.

My love for you, will always be,
A cry in the night; Stay with me.