I hope your days be bright and love will be near you always.
I hope your days be bright and love will be near you always.. She was the Gypsy girl, Monterey Bay dancer. She would gather her friends and they would find the sea. They… Continue reading
Tag Archive: Writing
2 Comments
Kiss away my ghosts..
Kiss away my ghosts.. The saddest man on the block drank alone. He write sleeping man poetry and he drink the “Quiet man” whiskey. He was once insane, wild and foolish. He befriended… Continue reading
Please remember who you were..
Please remember who you were… I saw a old friend sitting alone in a Austin, Texas at the coffee shop. Her eyes looking down at the table and her coffee, hiding her sorrow.… Continue reading
Dear Andrea..
Dear Andrea… I remembered dear Andrea. A lovely Michigan gal, once was kind to my young heart. I wrote into a notebook. “Time has pass us by,old wounds don’t hurt so badly.Old sorrow… Continue reading
Why do we write story and poetry?
Why do we write story and poetry? A Poem by Coyote Poetry Old wise saying. “Nothing good to say. Say nothing.” Poetry, my dear friends,is a sacred incarnation of a smile.Poetry is a sigh… Continue reading
Just a slow dance and a beautiful Ana Popovic song.
Just a slow dance.. Once upon a blue moon, the prettiest gal in Ann Arbor loved me. I told the polite bartender. She told me. Johnnie, Johnnie. You come here almost every night… Continue reading
When I am done…
When I am done.. I became the old man who waiting for no-one. Once I wanted everything and now. I need little. I wonder where do the old soldiers go? When they are… Continue reading
I try to remember..
I try to remember A Poem by Coyote Poetry Old poetry with are-write. Written in 1992/rewritten in 2014 I try to remember.. I tried to remember the curves of your body. Us blindfolded … Continue reading
The poet wisp..
The poet wisp… The pretty Texas gal asked me. You are here every Friday and Saturday morning by the Austin River sitting alone. Reading your books and writing into your journal. You read… Continue reading
The lost generation.. The French mother. Chapter four.
Pryde caressed his face till he finally was in a sound sleep. She saw the small small back-pack. She went to the small back-pack. She opened up the back-pact. She saw two books.… Continue reading