The Love Rhyme

-


I was awakened by the love she had taken

a young man's joy, blissful and sublime.

Yet, I had the feeling that she had been cheating

and ultimately wasting my time.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Different Time

-
Image
I was born in the wrong era and it becomes obvious as my walk devolves into feelings of frustration, disgust, misery and mystery. The streets are littered with the discards of a wasteful and all-consuming civilization without conscience or care for community. Animals meticulously clean themselves while our slovenly domesticated inhabitants bask in filth. I walk past an adjacent building proudly displaying its date of birth, 1890, on its stone façade. My thoughts wander in admiration. The changes this place has "witnessed" over the past 132 years is multitudinous. Oh, to be a sprinkle of dust blowing effortlessly down a dirt road; a bird perched high in one of the many long-forgotten trees; a pedestrian sitting on his porch listening to the gallop of horse hooves and the conversation of the moment. Men and women remained in touch with nature’s calls and sounds. Oh, the glory of blissful silence; of a time devoid of automobiles, coarse human vulgarities and bitter intercourse.
Read more

The Stream's Cloak

-
Image
A retreat from summer's close morning air, the new day brings a vivid announcement by nature that autumn is peeking its head just above this forenoon horizon. I observe the meandering streams that wind their way through these bayside waterways. Their countenance shrouded in a silken white cloak, like ghosts hovering precipitously over the warm, placid waters. The air is calm, the trees and leaves, or what remains of them, are still as a corpse, allowing this haunting to linger above. This is the time of year where these moments permeate our thoughts of summer's obstinate refusal to release its choking grip without a struggle. In time, the waters will cool and the cloak will lift, if only just temporarily.  For now, though, what do the wading ducks and geese, migrating birds and fish narrowly below the surface make of this spectral phenomenon? Are they scared? Nonplussed? Or just happily oblivious? I believe they are some how comforted in the knowledge that another season of lif
Read more

When will she sing to me?

-
Image
As the morning sun beat down upon the ground that summer morning, Sally looked out across the grassy yard, set her gaze upon the leafy and colorful bush in front of her and affectionately admired the fluttering wings of the myriad “fairies” that hovered in the air. “I can hear them speak to me.” Sally always had a way of speaking to those with whom she felt a close psychological connection.  It was there since day one, a sort of innate quality that was provided to her through the grace of her creator and the wisdom and randomness of physiology. Today was no different than other days, in that there was always something – a bird, a song, a moment, a friend or a memory – that spoke to her in ways that no one else could possibly contemplate.  Sally, though, had a gift.  She was sweet, kindhearted, precocious, extroverted and curious about the natural world all around her.  She was extremely childlike even beyond what a normal young child would routinely seem to be. “I’ve seen her before.”
Read more