Magazine Posts

Talk to me, not about where you've been
Or about your long night of sin,
For I know you lie as day is night
And it matters not if all the light,
Falls upon your senseless shame,
Or who in life, that you can blame.

There once was a Gnu, his name was Lou.
He was a very young Gnu, who couldn't do
Everything an old Gnu knew.
At certain times, in Lou's young life, you see
He wanted to do Gnu things, like you and me,
Because, if he didn't his mood would turn blue.
That wasn't supposed to happen to he,
To become the blue Gnu, named Lou.
Lou loved to run and gambol, like a young kid
And of course, being young, that's what he did.
Playing was good for Lou the Gnu, who grew,
Into a healthy and strong, Big Lou Gnu.
As you may have already guessed or surmised,
Lou the Gnu met a girl Gnu and was surprised
To find her name was Lulu the Gnu.
They married and in a very short while,
Young Gnus arrived; Lou and Lulu did smile.

I tire on this cold, chilly day,
When Winter keeps our Spring at bay.
I pray that this long cold spell,
Leaves us soon. I know it will.

#sunset #whidbeyisland

I did not know
that an hours sleep,
would cause my mind
to want to seep
out all these words,
that continue to creep
down to the page,
where I do keep,
all of my writing
trite and some deep,
to make a choice
of words to reap
and publish them now,
not letting them leap
to freedom and be
rich but not cheap.

Building a campfire, takes some knack
Of arranging wood, not in a stack,
But carefully building your little pile.
Take kindling and make a teepee,
A little paper, crumpled into a ball,
Touch with a match and in awhile
Flames will flicker, driving away the dark.

Remembering back to those adventures galore,
In the days of late Summer, away to the shore.
Joyful we were and we lacked hesitation.
Packing up the car for a vacation.
Pile into the car, kids in the back,
On our way; we can soon relax
Head down the road and don't forget,
The kids asking, " Are we there yet?

I've written down words,
Some strange words galore,
About leaving these writings
On the cold, cold floor.
When these words, spring into my head,
So rapidly that my eyes can't shed
The tears that gather on my eye lid.
So I write fast and if they did,
Stay on my eyes, as a vapor
And not fall down upon my paper.