A great tragedy,
A great loss.
What will it take
To get back on the Hoss.

The light grew dim
within his eyes.
Is this what happens
when a person dies?

Life can be a beautiful thing.
When you're gone, sadness will spring
out from your soul. On its way
to bring heart ache. A mournful sing;
a dirge, a sadness, no matter the cost,
a terrible thing, when another is lost.
Lost to their family. Now full of pain,
while only their memory will remain.

Don't worry my love,
it is just me.
Remembering our life
as it use to be.
To meet with our friends
and our whole family,
to go out to dinner
and celebrate with thee.

Is this writing craft
the skill made for me
or am I just pretending
I know I am a wanna be?

A young boy, shy and forlorn,
quiet since the day he was born.
His only shoes were quite scuffed,
clothing was clean but tattered and torn.
He played with others
when ever he could,
but most of the time was by himself,
behind the house, deep in the Wood.
This shy, retiring , bashful guy
would get anxious and
sometime he would cry,
for someone to help him.
To tell him "this is your day."
Play when you want and
do whatever you say,
but treat all people as a friend
and if you do that for life
it will be real and not "Let's pretend."

A poetic license is what is said,
when words wanted, aren't in your head.
So, let's get past all this now,
if I explain it to you; somehow,
using words of no rhyming;
using words of no pattern or sound,
clarify to the reader with confusion profound.
So pick up the pen and write away
a poetic writer you are on this day.

The love I feel,
when you're close to me,
I cannot describe
for I only see,
the person I married.
It's you. It is thee,
as life moves on
during this time of misery.

Many of the words, unused before,
lay as castoffs on my writing room floor.
Wrinkled, dried as leaves from a tree,
waiting, still waiting to be used by me.
Words forgotten, well past their age,
can be returned to life; to a page
in a notebook, a paper, using a pen,
to be written for the reader again.

The long goodbye, into the night,
should have been happy and bright.
A life's journey, ending this way
with sadness and loss every day.

Quit dragging your blanket,
the words came to me,
for you are her rock;
it's what it must be.

I'll try again, yes I will,
for hearing her bright laughter
always gives me a thrill.

When I was quite young.
Much too young for romance.
I wanted to then learn,
learn how to slow dance.
Being able to waltz, expertly
The standard, a four step,
appealed to my new sensibility.
You'd be in my arms
and everyone would see;
Gliding on the floor, smooth.
The box step for me.
A two step, my plan,
fast and lively it was,
much better than the Varsovienne.

The words are so many,
I write down a few.
How do I capture them,
When I think of you?
Words appear in a mass
of those I must undo,
to capture all the meaning.
It's what Poets will do.
Writing of words, over time,
searching for one or two,
finding words which will rhyme.
Words pouring out, so quickly,
those sublime, one more time.
Writings will fade, after ink
becomes old, with paper brittle,
thoughts now forgotten, they sink.
No one reads; very little
as I say now to you,
no matter the day it's
here now for my friend, you.

When writing these words,
I'm trying to say
the pain I feel
is here to stay.
The loss of life,
just not this day,
for it's her mind
which has gone away.