Inside they are dead,
yet, ******* the ideas
from the head
still, my plea is
creativity at any cost.
Allow the mind-Vamps
to have their way
to put on their stamp
and win the day,
even then not all is lost.
For creative ideas must flow
to the marketplace
lest they die or lose that glow
better to expose to the grace
and it be used, not tossed.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 5:36 PM UTC
When I was young I dreamed of riding a horse of blazing white, over and over, most every night. Through the neighborhood we would go, riding under clotheslines full of hanging sheets white as snow. I am not sure what the dream means, but I try to go back there every night it seems.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 3:11 PM UTC
LOVE
When I looked into your eyes I lost my soul.
You captured the part of me that is my essence.
Return my love, or not; no matter.
Still, you possess me.
by C. R. Binion
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
"Pull my finger", Granpere said,
as he lay dying in his bed.
So I pulled his finger,
and started crying.
"Stop crying Pony I'm still alive,
it only smells as if I died."
by C. R. Binion
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
OLD?
Young people say that I am old and gray,
Not worth the powder, to blow me away.
I just shake my head and laugh and say,
If you are lucky, you’ll be the same way.
I may be old, and as for the hair of gray.
That shows experience, and time’s sway.
If you think, getting old is bad, and punitive.
Spend a little time to think of the alternative.
C R Binion
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
Looking for love, which is not there…feeling, not seeing.
Shivering, shake it off, life is not fair…still, is it Dad or Mom?
Both have been gone…dying in my youth…beyond the rim of my reality.
Still I feel them, radiating love…knowing the truth…of my spiritual malady.
by C. R. Binion
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Imagine
When you were young life was young
You knew no bounds you were free
to imagine all the future possibilities
Before the love of your life locked you into
your ill-fated destiny. By CRBinion
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
Bruised, hurt, wounded,
some were broken far too badly
to be fixed
some ended it all
some drank and doped
some remain homeless
even to this day.
some could not face
what they saw
some could not live with
what they did.
Others came back
overcame, endured
some had to talk, some not so much
Many became educated
graduated, participated
in society.
Many became teachers, doctors, lawyers,
preachers, engineers. All walks of life.
Some lived normal lives, many were a
success.
After the war:
Not all were lost,
Yet, not one was left un-scarred.
By CR Binion
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
I know what it's like to
shoot at men I don't know how to
hide and hope I don't show
fear in my heart, or mind
of getting killed or left behind.
I know what it's like to
duck and dodge a bullet,
break a tooth and pull it
taking the cap off my beer
trying to drown all my fear.
I know what it's like to
feel a bullet hit the bone
wish to God I was home
lose blood then pass out
wake to cries and shouts.
I know what it's like to
come home to hate and not be loved
never be a hero but pushed and shoved
be spat upon and called names
know life will never be the same.
by CR Binion
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC
Pour out your heart and soul,
and others read and say… so?
That's the way it goes,
when one is a writer.
Agonize over just the right word
and others read right over it.
It's absurd, the life of a writer.
Why do we do it? They ask.
We answer, Why do we breathe?
Oh, to be a writer.
CR Binion
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC