Alone in the dark,
no stars in the sky,
sitting close together,
we.

What thoughts are there,
about the passing by,
the closeness of you,
we.

Long are the memories,
of this life, ours,
at last were together,
we.

A reflection in time,
seen in your eyes.
The bygone days of
love and deceit.

The years
passing, slowly by.
Moments of love,
a losing of life.

What good
are the words,
losing the love
of friend and family.

Why are we here,
this short time,
wasting our moment
of memories past?

You think you know me,
because you know my name.
I have news to tell you,
life's not a game.

There are games, plenty,
and could name a few,
but what is the purpose,
if I don't know about you.

I am no "straight arrow."
Just a guy from the "sticks"
who has thrown everything,
from stones to bricks.

Don't get me wrong,
I didn't smash and grab.
I worked with a Mason,
one summer. My job, on the
ground was to throw bricks,
up to the roof, where he would
pluck them from the air,
stacking them before he
troweled "mud" or mortar,
then constructed a chimney.

It happened one morning.
I can't remember the day or time.
My writing was chaotic
and wasn't expecting a rhyme.

And, yet there it was,
simple as one plus one equals two.
I wrote down my words,
again, thinking of you.

Why the rhyming of words?
It wasn't making any sense.
I may not be the smartest,
but I know I'm not dense.

Over the years, I wrote,
as an idea popped in my head.
Words mean life to me,
they do now, as I've said.

Many years, gone by, now.
Words still flow, sometimes,
without any rush or hurry,
not even nickels or dimes.

I believe,
the first day
I stopped
drinking,
was the day,
they invented
the funnel.

A reflection
in the windowpane
of clouds darkened,
a forecast of rain.

The last day of February,
which is today,
should close with sunshine,
not these clouds of grey.

Where is the joy,
when it's dark, day and night.
We need more sunshine,
to make the day bright.

The scooter, sat by
the garage door.
If you were looking for trouble,
it was there on the floor.

The floor, old and wooden,
full of holes and broken nails.
If you were looking for smoothness,
be very disappointed, it fails.

What does it mean,
to write words of today.
No matter the reason,
a written word will stay.

Write ye tomorrow,
of the grandest days
and you'll find words,
of love, adoration and praise.

Turtle
Dove
Love

All the pain,
in this late life,
moving toward an ending
uniting us as man and wife.

Shadows, in the dust,
on the wooden floor,
of the vacant house,
next door.

He lived here once,
I heard someone say.
He lives here, no longer,
for he's gone away.

Will he ever return?
People have asked why?
I shrugged my shoulders,
letting out a sigh.

Let's have a game.
Here's what to do.
Write down a word,
I'll write one too.

I write my first word,
you can reply soon.
Words of a planet or
a word for the moon.

Be careful, make a choice,
picking the word, you choose.
There won't be a winner
and no one will lose.

Ready to play?
Then here goes.
What is beautiful,
but not called a Rose?

Remember to write,
just one word, at the end.
Use your imagination,
let's just pretend.
Turtle.

Tell me a story,
about when you were a boy.
An adventured you lived,
once with a friend.

Graduated, from the eighth grade,
myself and my friend.
Wanted to earn some money.
We hitchhiked from Seattle,

North to Lynden to pick strawberries.
We arrived and heard the news,
the berry season was over or done.
Reverse our journey, sleeping in a
field, outside of Bellingham, and
returned to Seattle.
Thumbs out, we needed a ride.