The Reason for Writing

Show a story, be a story.
Life is the plot,
The reason for writing.

Acceptance.
To mean everything.
The only pay for long work, life work.
Never there, and one day it comes.

And nothing has been better.
Stories of lost dreams and found joys,
Stop the breath and bring life.

It is, sometimes, still difficult.
All that energy, all that time, all that work to write.
It changes all the time as I learn and grow.
Look forward instead of backward,
And be a part of this dance of words.

The Attic

My attic is a spooky place.
A statue twists with a broken base.
Howling wind is actually its screams,
Of a lost soul and dried up dreams.

A three-legged table starts to dance,
While the broken chairs plant a firm stance.

There is a large trunk with three different locks,
And a scary portrait surely it blocks.

An old owl came and went,
For it did not like the feeling that room sent.

Where I'm From...

I am from summer days,
Playing in the pool, listening to Jimmy Buffett.
From the Mongolia tree outside my window,
That blooms white flowers with the come of spring.
From the game of fetch with my old dog Tucker,
That never ended until he passed.
From peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch,
To BBQ-ed chicken and fresh corn on the cob dinners.
From people passing joyfully on the bike trail behind our house,
To dogs barking through the dead of night.
From yearly family vacations full of sunblock and swimming,
To the lasting memories I will not soon forget.
This is where I am from.