Public Posts Stanwood, WA Stanwood, WA (zoom)

If I were a writer of melodies,
sad songs would be my forte,
for sadness comes the easiest
to those who sit and wait
and do nothing, simply nothing,
to change.
Weep not for those sad songs
for they are merely words,
of frustrated lovers,
stating their lament,
of sadness.

I love you, for all
the world to see.
I love you for what
you do to me.
You are the Mother of
our children,
the keeper of our house,
you are everything and
beloved spouse.
You are there when
I need you
and when I don't,
you're not around.
You love me when
I'm good
and you love me
when I am bad,
you offer me consort
and comfort, when I'm sad.
You are my love,
everlasting,
no matter what will be,
as my love for you,
is for eternity.

Without a moon or star above,
I stand, in darkness, alone.
My thoughts are splashed with color
that comes, not from my eye.
Your face as I remember,
floats airily in space,
as tender springtime breezes blow
the hair from off your face.
Your eyes flash with eternal light
of loves unfilled claim
and flecks of sorrow, can be seen
for the man who has a name,
that you cherish.
He will stand, eternally alone,
in the blackest void,
knowing not of missing love
from one who waits to see,
a smile of recognition.

Being lonesome, is not being lonely,
for lonely people are lacking friends.
Lonesome people miss their
surroundings or their friends
and loved ones.
Wishing to be alone, at moments,
is looked upon, by some, as
being anti social,
when, in fact, people have
different needs or if you will,
a different tolerance of others.
Don't be surprised, if I seek
to be alone, away from you.

Why must we choose
between two friends,
we both love and trust?

The hurt that is seen,
the pain, that is not,
is hard to understand.

Why those whose love
had been, for years,
now has turned into sand
and dried up tears.

It's not easy, being lonely,
especially, when surrounded
by friends.
But when your good,
nothing is difficult.
I can find myself in
pits of sorrow,
covered with my own
self pity,
feeling sad,
for no reason.

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.