Decades of wallowing in my own dust just made me tougher

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I could have taken the easy road
Smooth as a baby butt
Straight as a nun’s ruler
Not much challenge to drive
Just follow the rest of the soulless
Stay in line
keep your head moving forward

But the dirt road called me
Curves and slop
Mud and nasty twists
hidden in the mist
No streetlights or mile markers
Not another soul on this path
My road of choice that
always belonged to me

Tough road to stay on though
So many sudden turns
I could barely hang on
Years wasted slogging
through the muck
Hacking away by the hour
the clutter in…

Chasing that lost creativity when you are a writer over fifty

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“Every child is an artist/creative. The problem is how to remain an artist once he or she grows up.” — Pablo Picasso

What attracted me to writing was not the writing, but the writer’s life. The writing life is another way of talking about what it means to be an artist, to find an outlet for your creativity, to live every day of your life chasing your own creative potential.

But for many of us who felt we born to create, careers, family and the frustrations of life often take us away from our creative days. We might be creatives…

The swaying of her hips a torment since Eve and the apple

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Standing on the corner
waiting for the light
Woman in front of me
might have been twenty-six
She glanced
my way and smiled
A knowing look that has kept
divorce attorneys busy
for a hundred years

Tall blonde,
long hair,
longer legs,
short, testosterone inducing
white skirt
Red lips shimmering
in the afternoon sun
Ruby heels to match the lips
The heels,
always the damn heels

The light changed
and she stepped
onto the street
The swaying of her lips
a torment to men
since Eve reached up high
for the apple, wearing nothing
but a few small fig leaves

Two people hiding love at the top of the world

By Demoncic on iStock (image licensed by author)

Rocky Mountain high plateaus
of Colorado
stolen love
at midnight

A love that should
have never been
The full moon near enough
to burn your soul
Dew on the meadow grass,
a crisp chill
in the late summer air

Alone as you
can ever be in this world
Nothing but elk
and the sounds
of night for miles

Two people hiding
at the top of the world
Hours spent loving
in the dark,
a love that could never be
in the light of day

Running naked
under the moonlight
Dancing in the open meadow
of wet grass,
startling white snow…

Write because you simply cannot live without writing

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Without writing most of us would not be us, we would be lesser people unable to communicate what we feel and see around us in life. Writing to many of us is the defining voice of our life, and is our way to let the world know we are here, and have something to say that matters… at least to us.

In difficult times, the world needs the writer, the poet, the weaver of tales, now more than ever. If your writing can ease a little personal pain, or take me away from a long and dark day, you, for…

Your poetry will get better if you can find the song in the rhythm

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My friends can’t wait for the third glass of wine because everyone at the table knows I can’t resist reciting loudly, standing at the end of table with glass in hand, “The Road Not Taken,” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” Robert Frost classics just needing to be heard yet again. But ask yourself why do these poems still sound so alive and vibrant so many years later? Good poems that endure are like the words of your favorite love song, they sound so beautiful going beyond the words. Frost poems also capture this magic of the song…

I hope she is terrified sitting alone in the dark, she owes it to me

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Innocent face,
girlish smile,
kind eyes,
and a liar

She was on news,
running for big office,
every word she spit
at us a lie

She knows she lies,
and doesn’t care
Everyone watching her
knows she is lying
and wonders
why she even bothers

She raises her voice,
desperate for power,
needing a touch
of fame today
to fill the hole
where her soul used to live

I wonder how the rest
of her life works
Cheat on the husband
and tell a lie
Talk to your daughter
and tell her
all the lies are not lies,
just lies I have to tell
to get a job…

Still time to become the person I want you to remember

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Hard to believe he is gone
my old friend said,
a few who had known him,
now gathered in his favorite
bar to say goodbye

We sat on these same stools
three years ago, he told her
Everyone else had gone to bed,
but we stayed up till four,
drinking wine and talking

What was he like
she asked him?
I never had a chance
to know him,
but wondered who
he really was?

He told me I was
wasting my life,
and my talent
He asked hard questions,
and I think I was
even crying a little

He would…

One year, three months, and six days of loving her

By Mr Korn Flakes on iStock (image licensed by author)

She stole my checkbook
and drained my last dollar
Wrecked my car, drunk
on a Saturday afternoon
Left me waiting for her
at a bars alone,
staring at the door,
wondering if
this time
she would show
Lost her cat…
I bought her
a new one
she gave away

Slept with my best friend,
then just shrugged
as if I would understand
Lost a job
because she was lazy
and late every day
Got it back
because she could
convince anybody
of anything

Had immense talent
and hid it just to piss me off
Wore high heels
as tickets to free…

By Mordolff on iStock (image licensed by author)

Dance people, set the world on fire with…

Thomas Plummer

A simple life dedicated to leaving the world a little better than I found it. Long career in the business of fitness, writer of books, speaker, personal coach.

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