michelangelo55

Strangers On The Road An old man journeyed the Whreymire Road, before a storm one night. He sought a place to rest his head, and wait for morning's light. He stopped to camp just off the road, and sat before his fire; to eat and rest, perhaps to sleep but wrote 'til he grew tired. He chronicled his travels,   about his search for honest men; and hoped that in his tireless search, he'd find the truth within. Then from the trees a Stranger came, to the edge of the campfire light. And bade the man, "May I join you there; to share the lonely night?" A chilling wind from nowhere came, encircling the man. He shook the chill from '

    On a quiet summer evening when I was 12 years old, I spoke with my father about Death.    It was the deep kind of dark that is only left after a bright sunny day that is so blinding, that it seems the eyes of the world need a rest. I could see through the open door into the other bed room, and through its door outside to the front porch and beyond - out the screen door into the buzzing darkness. The colors of night seemed a heavy syrupy mix of blacks, purples, deep greens and blue-grays.    The room we sat in was lit by a single bedside lamp. A curious thing made like a statue of Rin-Tin-Tin, and in the round base connected to one sid

I wrote this for everyone creative that thinks they’re too old or it’s too late to make a contribution. Bloom, let your light shine and your voice be heard. Cheers! Never Too Late The trembling hand needs to be discarded, unable to make the genius stroke. My words now seem to be more retarded; so far removed from the words I spoke. So many a year and hour gone, from the youth that sang so fair a song. The undivided chords they play, of youth lamented so far away. I read the pages of lines that now, seem lacking in spirit and tone. The melodies written by younger hands, that both were once my own. The colors running f