Contact
If you desparately need to contact me. Try smoke signals. I am usually out of contact any way. If all else fails, try face book. You could use this form, may work
Poetry
Special
So you couldn't find me there. You may find me below.
Whispers
A whisper upon the wind,A whisper so faint and thin,
Tells of things it has seen,
Whispering of times that have been.
It tears at the strongest of heart,
Watching two souls being torn apart,
By forces beyond their control,
Trying to separate their eternal soul.
But no power can part everlasting love,
For when time transcends the other above,
They shall once again be together,
Happily living in their love forever.
For my Amazing Nan and Pop
Welcome to My Parlour Said the Spider to the Fly
Welcome to my parlour said the spider to the fly; more aptly "Welcome to my poetry said the writer to the reader. For it as much the case for the fly as it is for the reader. If you were able to flick through the pages then maybe you wouldn't become the spiders next meal, but untangle yourself to fly away.But. To read the poems in depth, not to browse, but to read as if you were in fact the writer. Then. Then you would see a totally different world indeed.
You will be able to feel the raw emotion. You will be able to sense the fears. Visually seeing all the fantasies. Be entangled in the intrigue.
You can listen to, and hear, differing views on politics, the supernatural, and the ultimate question; are we alone?
You can be swept off your feet with the sweet serenades, and yet then, be brought crashing down by the broken hearts. Only to be lifted back up again with a love song. Be it of a person, country, or just the populace in general.
All in all, you would be caught in the spiders web. Not to become a feeble meal. But. But, maybe. To become a spider yourself.
See the person. See the Spider.
An introduction to my collection, many a year ago.
Title to Song
Oh I do recall my first, real, memory,At the age of three, what a man stood in front of me.
Three fingers on his left hand was all he had,
And it made me sad.
But it made me glad,
To shake his hand;
“Shake hands with a gentleman” is what he said to me,
Beautiful memories of a child of three.
Out of the darkness comes, more, memories,
Through the house, out the back past the almond trees.
Three sheds stood like sentries, eyes had no tears,
Brewing beer and fishing gear,
Wood turnings there and here,
Then he took my hand;
“Shake hands with a gentleman” is what he said to me,
Beautiful memories of a child of three.
As I travel through life’s, strange, mysteries,
The path I walk, is shaped by what was behind those trees.
The Man, the sheds, his beliefs, his abilities,
For there was no lock,
For which he had no keys.
I took his frail hand,
“Shake hands with a gentleman” is what I said to him,
Beautiful memories of a man of twenty three.
Shelter in Each Other
Bitter cold winter winds blow hard,Across the harsh unforgiving plains.
A coldness to pierce the warmest heart,
Tormenting those caught up in it’s path.
Unable to see the forest through the trees,
A decade would pass before the fog could lift.
Like overlapping snakes entwined without contact,
Criss and cross their own paths would twist.
The heat moves in and out of mirages,
On the lonely empty desert sands.
The sun burns deep into uncovered flesh,
Tearing at their faces in their hands.
No matter how unpleasant the weather,
Henry and Lyn have found their shelter;
With each other, for each other,
More so, they found shelter in each other.