Public Posts

Life is short,
full of many treasures now.
Times change and here you are,
unable to maintain your vow.

She is gone,
away from thee.
You will never more,
her face to see.

Loneliness becomes
a part of your life,
for you no longer have,
your beautiful wife.

I miss you,
my darling soul,
but will soon be there,
and we'll be whole.

The finality of life,
as we know it today,
will soon change,
and go away.

It's OK for in this,
our life's cycle here,
will bring forth a
time which we held dear.

Life must end,
this we know.
I wish to exit quietly,
as my final show.

There are time when,
we should reflect on life.
This is one of those times,
when faced with strife,

you find there are outside,
influences effecting your way
of thinking. How you view,
what once was a safe day.

It is unfortunate, when life,
doesn't remain the same,
and we revert to calling it,
by another name.

A small fire,
with embers bright,
a perfect place to
contemplate tonight.

In the early days of my writing,
I chose to write verse,
or in my case, rhyming poetry.
I didn't know, for it was terse.

When we write of things,
which memory supplies,
may we assume we know,
before the memories dies?

My father used to say,
"Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow's grave
or the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self-reliant like the cat—
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth—
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint."
Nor was he insincere in saying, "Make my house your inn."
Inns are not residences.

Marianne Craig Moore (1887 – 1972). American modernist poet, critic, translator, and editor. She is consider one of American literature’s foremost poets. Her poetry is noted for its precise diction, irony, and wit. She was nominated for the 1968 Nobel Prize in Literature.
This poem is in the public domain.

Love has, many memories.
Here is one of imagination,
which I wish I could revisit.

If I write about tomorrow,
a day yet to be,
but change the words to yesterday,
for that is what I did see.

Tomorrow is the future,
today is today,
but the day before,
was another yesterday.

Come with me, my friend,
to a land far away,
where we return to our youth,
playing games every day.

A place, we will love,
above all the rest.
Where friends are friends,
unlike all of the rest.

There is no hatred,
where we will soon go,
just love for others,
as we live out life's show.

Are you ready to,
take the next move?
To play like a child,
with nothing to lose.

From the beginning,
when light first arose,
writing the words,
changing it to prose.

When did it start?
Oh, how long ago,
when the World was right,
for it was our show.

Our turn to dance,
until the cows came home,
or dance with others,
or dance alone.

Frustrations,
may abide, when
we guess at our
thoughts of living.