I Killed My Friend Today

today I killed my friend

when I moved here

a beautiful magnolia tree

lived here

Laddie loved to lie

under this magnificent giant

owls came

at night

squirrels played

alll around

your huge limbs

birds sang their songs


within your leaves

today I hugged you

patted the scars

and said

i am so sorry that you have to die today

i cried

this great tree had to die

mold can be deadly

allergies are my constant companion

the termite inspection

revealed I had one small puddle of water

under the house

I need to watch for mold

the sides and under my tree

never completely dried

this friend was reaching out

for the house

laddie’s ashes

swirled with

sawdust and pollen

my heart dropped

as I heard

the thud

that said

“it is over”

my soul

rose with

the soul

of the tree

Laddie joined us

we traveled awhile

together as one

i returned

laddie would


our friend

to the

In between until

i came

thank you

my great tree

for your shade

your beautiful

cream blooms

your dark shiny leaves

thank you

i am so sorry you

had to die today

Writing Wrings the Last Drop of Blood

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”
—George Orwell

The demon of wanting to know the truth when there is no truth but your own truth; your own mind sees and hears things differently than any other mind on earth. However, having said that could we agree that if one sets about to expose the truth that one would look for facts as set forth in other author’s books? I do not know if this is true or not because all of life, at some point seems to be a fabrication; writing is a journey back into the soul as you relieve all that you have already lived and tried to forget or maybe tried to remember the good and failed because perhaps there was not enough good to remember. If one is often told that if only you could be more like your siblings you would not get into so much trouble. Is that the truth or did you just dream this bad dream and wake into a loving world. Parents can love their children but not really like them and the child knows when that is true. The wisdom of children far outweighs any other wisdom. It is the innocence of childhood before the world beats it out and flattens this wisdom.
Writing wrings the last drop of blood; tears the fabric of your soul and leaves you lying there in your own powerless state to change what might have been except maybe through writing the facts as you find them within the confines of a library or other public domain sources.
Neither is this true. There is no truth. There is no way to know absolutely what you search for. It is an impossible task but one must try to follow that path because there are gems along the way that may substitute for what you have looked for.
Is this a rant or a revelation? You choose.

Don’t you love all the dangling prepositions?

Word and Pen

To place you in the moment: First, I seldom ever write in rhyme. Second, this was echoing through my brain upon awakening. Before getting out of bed, half asleep, I wrote what I call a ditty.

my friend

the Pen

doth write

an end

while I lay sleeping

in rustic inn.

no fault

of Pen

brethren shutdown

the rustic inn

and grinned.

Locked within


Word and Pen.


Two twinkling stars

winking carelessly


my sister

and me.

Two cloud faces

smiling down

on us.

Two siblings


tumbling through


night sky,

while two siblings


When will

we follow?

Look to

the sky

look for the

twin sisters


at you.

May it

be me

not Her.

Being left

here alone


too scary

for me.

“A Necessary End”

Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.

  • Act II, scene 2, line 33.
  • Julius Caesar, Shakespeare