I tire of doing this writing craft,
for in my life, I am feeling daft.
Daft in the head, we would say;
It's the way I feel, every day.
Perhaps it's because words cause me pain.
Wishing to do better and not complain.
I tire of words, from the dirt,
for when I write them, they hurt.
Hurt others I care so much about,
for I want to scream and shout,
"Enough, enough, is what I say,
there's hate in this Country, every day."
The past few days, have been wild.
I am living with an elderly child.
A child; my loved one I see,
Who asks all these questions of me.
Did you know my parents, I had?
I have nothing. No Mom or Dad.
She knows we have friends, I recall
But doesn't know names, not at all.
She remembers our granddaughter, by name,
For all others, it's not the same.
As I sit, with pen in hand,
I must say, with no remand,
of writing two works, recently
as I sat in front of the
computer, writing quite freely.
Why do words, which I love
come easily from my trove
of words bouncing in my head?
Where is the senseless prose,
now taking me? I wish to know.
Let me be, o fate of mine,
I love all my friends, for sure
and hope my distant love
will last long and endure.
Yes, stay MFish! reading your words is a wonderful experience I look forward to.
Thank you Amy. So many years have gone by since the very first post. Love to you.
I love the words you write. I appreciate your talent and discipline for creating poetry and prose about many thoughts, feelings and memories.
An uncle of mine had one, I still remember the sound of the engine.
I liked the spark advance lever on the steering column.
I miss you, Miss Ellie.
I really do.
I'm happy now, for
I can still talk to you.
There are no words
For me to say,
As you don't understand,
much on this day.
Social discussion with you
I do love and not to discuss
current events to avoid
All the political lies.
Be well my darling
As well as you can be,
For my love is here with
You, for the World to see.
Tell me more about the
World you live in when
you are away from me.
I see you sitting in your
chair when you are about
to say, "I'm bored."
When you cannot grasp the
words I speak or
what that object is. I
see the surprise then
appears when you pick up
an object and say "this?"
There is no connection to
the objects you see and
the name it is called.
Forgive me sweet one
if I don't understand
when you ask me a question
of something, over and over again.
I'll try to reply with
my best guess.
Your eyes were pools of blue.
They weren't the best part of you,
For the part of you I found
Was your view of life; so profound.
Your voice, the sound that Angels sing,
Would draw me to you, once again,
But you have left and gone away
And shan't return here, if I stay,
For a lost love, is what you are.
A lovely, beautiful shining star.
I miss you now, most every day
And I will write until I've gone away.