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Local Focus – Global Reach

Retired for many years and now re-discovering some writings, from long ago, along with new endeavor to help save my soul.

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A bright Moon,
silver orb in
the Southwestern sky,
watching the Earth
as clouds pass by.
What stories you'd tell,
if there was a way,
to hear all the words,
there were to say.
Please, oh please
tell us
for we want to know,
the secrets you hold
within that silver glow.

It matters not,
where you have been.
If it was, done for love
or a conjugal sin.
My sight is dimming,
as my hearing goes
and my body's a mess.
The hair, once luxurious
has started to leave,
as balding approaches.
My ears are starting to sag,
with skin now mottled
but this much I know,
as the climate keeps warming,
some of us must go
to that place of sugar and spice
as long as we have plenty of ice.

It's a strange World we live in,
Full of truths and of some lies,
That may appear quite different
When seen through another's eyes.

A World of great frustration
Or of a lover's sighs.
No matter, what your thought,
We all must now realize,
We are all quite different,
But it should not be a surprise,
That we are all the same
When seen through our God's eyes.

A golden glow.
A low refrain.
A moonless night,
with no rain.
Away we go
to see the Sunrise,
one day more.
Red this morning.
Not a good sign,
for a storm is coming.
A weather change,
of good or bad,
said with disdain.
These words, senseless,
without reason,
when thinking about
the Winter season.

There is nothing like this, I know
When you watch a grandchild grow.
The memories of raising one's own child
Was a great experience and so
Watching your grandchild become
Who you love like a nursery rhyme,
As you see them grow, over time.

A gentle breeze blows across my brow
as I dig holes for fall plantings.
The problem, I have, with
planting European Bluebells,
is the many roots that grow,
beneath the tree. Not big,
just small roots that must be cut.
Instructions are to plant under a tree
and they will multiply.
I'm anxious to see the results
next Spring.

Sometimes when I'm writing,
I would swear, my mind
Has thoughts of it's own.

With pen in hand, I write
The words that pop into
This brain of mine.
Writing fast, scribbling here,
Unable to read the words
As they fly by, as I attempt to
Write. Oh my goodness
There is no period in sight
To end all this rambling
Prose. There. Finally one
Did appear, but what happened
To the commas?
Did they disappear?
I wish I knew, for it would
Make it clear, that my
Writing sense is not here.

The cold air chews through my clothes,
gnawing on these old bones.
The air crisply attacks my nose
as I shiver with the coldness.
A warm hat on my head
with flaps to protect my ears.
Gloves with a warm lining
keep the fingers writing.
I don't like this Winter chill
especially when it's still Summer.

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