Magazine Posts

Maintain that fire, that is lying within.
Stoke up your engine, let it begin.
Change the direction; go into the wood.
Discover yourself as only you could.
Become that one person, you know who;
Be the one people look up to.

Dementia

I wish not on anyone,
be you woman or man,
this hideous disease,
we do not understand.

It matters not, what I say or do,
It only matters that I love you.

The days of the past are now gone
and won't be back again.
Don't look back, when you hear the noise
of your history's past refrain.

It's 3:30 a. m. or I should be precise,
It is actually, 3:22, Isn't that nice?
The words in my head, rattling about,
Keep bouncing around, trying to get out.
Now, I sit at a table and chair,
Urging the words to appear from the air.
No matter how many or how few,
I've captured the moment, that I do
Write down words, no matter the dread
To hurriedly write and return to my bed.
Now the words are written to take,
Here I am now, very much awake.

I don't want to say this
But out of the gloom,
Senility, most certainly
Has entered the room.

The crispy air, nips at my nose
and as I walk, I feel my toes
starting to tingle, searching for heat,
I must put socks upon my feet.
Not liking to wear socks, not at all,
be it Spring, Winter, Summer or Fall.

Don't be afraid,
She said to me,
For life or death
Will always be
One that will
Soon, set us free.
The pain I feel
Deep within my soul,
Feels like I'm on the
Edge of the rabbit hole.
So here we go, Alice,
Without command.
Down the hole
To Wonderland.

“I found that I could say things with colour and shapes that I couldn’t say in any other way things that I had no words for,” Georgia O’Keeffe (November 15, 1887–March 6, 1986) wrote in the foreword to a catalog for an exhibition of her work two decades before she became the first female artist honored with a retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art ........Read more

The wind arose, I heard windows chatter.
Rain was coming sideways, to splatter,
Against the house and the window pane.
I just love the sound of rain.

All leaves, that were on the trees,
Have fallen now; are up to my knees.
If the rain will stop, just for awhile
I'll get to work, picking up the pile.