i want to talk about you
to everyone i know
i want to shut my mouth
and keep you to myself
my heart flares up
explodes with thoughts of you
and i can't catch the words
and i can't catch my breath

Somewhere outside
the ship of dreams
made up of black midnight blues , floats lifelessly in the morning dew .

A house is more
than brick , wood and motar
Life resides inside the structure

Every house has its bones
that become broken
by time
and then they are gone

You can feel the past that's speaking
The laughter , chatter and the weeping

Everyone says do not go
There's nothing there
but the pain you know

[Oh! the memories that were made . . .
when they lowered you into the grave . . .]

Now these days the birds sing and play
The new blue sky takes my breath away

Still I'm sadden
The loss immense
Even gone the picket fense

Every house that once was home
made of brick , motar , wood or stone

Becomes a cenotaph to the memories made . . .
to the past that's missing . . To those through enduring
. . . stayed . . .

Today I’ll ponder,
on these scars.
Tonight I’ll wish,
upon a star.

Tomorrow may bring,
another wound,
but wounds can heal,
if treated soon.

Yesterday,
I thought of death,
and felt the wind,
sigh with his breath.

Not today,
he whispered clear,
perhaps tomorrow,
but do not fear.

In the end,
he comes to all.
The weak, the strong,
the big and small.

He’s timeless and constant,
Death’s always “been”,
and he has no pity,
foe or friend.

He’ll lead me on,
to the unknown,
giving me the thing,
he can never own.

So I will not fear him,
and I shall not fret.
For tomorrow,
has not happened yet.

It may look like I'm silent
But don't let it fool you
I'm holding back the will
To say that I love you

I guess I'll go make a cup of tea
Because sometimes it feels like
You have time for all of them, but not for me

Violin with just one string
Tuning peg turned green with mold-
How can music come from that.

Flugelhorn with dented bell
And valves turned red with rust-
Who can blow a tune through that.

Radio with no antenna
Broken plastic dial won’t move-
No songs to dance the airwaves now.

Warbler with a sore throat in
A covered cage in the other room-
Can’t out sing the crows outside.,

A singer’s soul in a tuneless box
Perfect rhythm trapped in mud-
Melody in turmoil to get out.

Envy, longing, deprivation
Effort, failure, mockery-
One who should but cannot sing.

One entitled to the music
That shakes mountains,
Calms the frantic, dulls the pain.

Given only little tastes
Of what that paradise would be
If only she could sing.

Why was her voice given to
A multitude of those
Who have no need or yearning.

Why was she deprived of song-
Of that one balm to heal and mend
The every breaking of her heart.

Why was she allowed to stand
Nearby enough to feel the air
Vibrating with the sounds of it

And not allowed to make her own-
To feel the rhythm and the beat
But not take part in shaping it.

Why was her feeling for the mood
Denied the chance to paint it
On the canvas of her throat

And send it out like pretty boats
On calm reflecting waters,
Even if nobody heard but her.

Where was the vibrato hidden
That she sought and schooled for years
Sometimes there, but mostly not.

Why her mental perfect pitch
Refused to translate to her voice
And became a sorrow birthing silence.
ljm

In evening of summer
a change appears.
Cooler breeze is coming my way.
Looking at trees I feel thankful just to be.
Colors so soft taking all sharpness away.
Making me want to hum a silent song.
Watermelon leaves next to olive green and beige all going to the golden gate.
In this transition time of trees and leaves
it’s good for humans to realize
that autumn season
is like autumn of years.
Coming to the eve of our lives.
Life in pastel colors, softens the mind.
Going towards hopefully golden times.
Live well.




Shell✨🐚

𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡
𝐹𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑚𝑒...
𝐺𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒
𝑇𝑜 𝑚𝑒...
𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑠;
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑓  𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠...