Why Write

I write words, I put thoughts on paper, not great thoughts nor great words,

But themes that may induce some enjoyable thought in others.

I cannot reach out and touch all those that I seek to please,

I only have hope that I find those that will be my sisters and brothers.

A family of like minds where we communicate for the sake of joy,

For the pleasure of saying the things that calm the troubled mind.

Inspire happiness, or love, or the most delightful things of life,

Using the word like a gentle caress, maybe even a lovers toy.

To stand and talk face to face to some is a waste of thought,

For whilst you speak they travel mental roads, different tracks.

To place the written word before their eyes, commands attention

Yet the fault lies with the ones whose power to learn, often lacks.

The written word, like ink stains in the cloth, like brands upon stock,

Sits in perpetuity, waiting for someone to seek another's mind.

And then, in decades yet to come, you may strike a resonant chord,

That, my brothers and sisters of the pen, is the power of the written word.

Must Be Dreaming

Dream On

In my dreams I am tall and handsome, Adonis, a fellow dreamer's word

I like who I am, in my dreams, and it does not swell my head.

I am as modest as a perfect man can be, a rooster if I was a bird.

In my dreams I drive a fabulous car, deep throated engine noise, I hear.

White upholstery, forever clean, beckons to maidens on the walkways,

And I give a casual wave, and they swoon seeing me so near.

In my dreams, everyone feels blessed by my presence, I do nothing wrong,

If asked I will recite a Shakesperian verse, do a scene from some film.

Dance like Old Fred, fight a duel for some lady's honour, or sing a love song.

I met a beautiful lady, in my dreams, blonde, blue eyes sent signal beam

For once my heart beat a little faster, could this be true love, I hoped.

“Come walk with me, dear lady,” I spoke “Come walk by yonder stream.”

“In your dreams, sport,” she said.

Home spun Poetry #2

I  owned a creamy horse, a creamy horse named Custard.
Now, Custard liked to trot, the trottin' creamy Custard,
Some days he'd buck me off and I'd fall upon the ground.
It made me really sad, but I should've sent him to the pound.
One day, in rainy weather, he rolled in lots of Mud.
The dirty trottin', buckin' muddy custard, it was hard to stay his bud.
Creamy Custard went missing, and now I  know what where,
But I am so pleased that the dirty trottin' buckin, muddy creamy Custard
Never made me swear.

Home Spun Poetry

Hard Times

Hard times last longer so it seems

When the miseries of life torment the soul

There appears no hope in your despair

No happiness that will console

And yet, even life's misery has its place

It enhances the simple joy of life

Things we once took for granted

Are manifest when rising from the strife

How much more we appreciate love

When we have been forsaken

Health after illness, strength when it returns

All the good things there to be taken

Misery and woe are easy to attain

But happiness needs some work

No bird sings if we turn a deaf ear

No light shines if in darkness we lurk

Seek love and you will prosper

Have the strength to survive

Care about yourself, and be cared for

Be thankful that you are at least, alive.