Reminiscing or for real?



The man sat on his porch looking out into the dark
his eyes did not see anything as he was far away and deep in thought
of how his life had shaped out and what happened along the way
and he would have given anything to be able to change it
but, as with everything connected to life, there is no changing
no going back, no second chance only thoughts of what might have been.

With a sigh, he brought himself out of his reverie and back to the present
as his current wife and lover pulled into the driveway
he watched her walk with that faintly erotic swing of her hips up on the porch
as she disappeared through the door he wondered if she had seen him sitting there
and was ignoring him for the umpteenth time
he sighed again and heaved himself from his chair
and disappeared into the house.

In truth,there was no wife, there was no lover
she had died a year earlier from cancer
he had nursed her through her sickness and suffered her pain
and had been with her when she died and had wept over her grave
and all he had now were his memories strong enough to bring her back
at least in his mind as she walked to meet him
and even though he knew it wasn’t real but just his imagination
he gladly welcomed her back with open arms.

With a jolt he awoke and could remember the dream he just had
but, was it a dream or had she really come to him in his sleep
as he lay there, he could recall every part of the moments
as she was in his arms, warm to his touch and very alive
and he could see the depression in the pillow where her head had been
and could still feel the warmth of her body and her lips as she had kissed him
as she walked through the door he knew that he was not dreaming
and realized that the body in the bed was his and that it was very still
and that he was with his beloved wife in spirit as that was all he had
as his body had died and he knew now they were together forever.

This Writing Thing


Pen to Paper

This writing thing has a hold on me
Every time I can I try to see
If something else I can write
Poem, story it matters not
To give it a try with all I have got
Another posting, look at that
He is good for that’s a fact
Let’s wait ’till tomorrow and we will see
What it is that he
has come up with today
To share with us and in his own way
satisfy the urge that he has to write
In the hope that he might
Strike a chord, a harmony or two
As with his writing he finds out who
He really is.

With notebooks and pens scattered all around
On this journey of writing they can be found
Within his reach as thoughts he does sound
Not to forget but to write them down
The thoughts come in and just as fast
Do leave his mind, they do not last
Unless pen to paper he does apply
To make those thoughts reality take
In his search for words that he might make
The perfect story or poem with rhyme
He writes so fast not wasting time
In an effort to get words down to see
What has he written this time for he
is an old man and time he hath not
To write all the things, they are a lot
In his hurry to beat the clock on the wall
The one that says, that’s it, that’s all
Try as you might, you still will fall
at the end, just like us all
You cannot beat time how hard you may try
for in the end we must all die.
And time has run out.

English: Hour Glass Hour glass in the church o...

Hour Glass