I hope I make it till the Spring.
I hope I make it till the Spring… A Poem by Coyote Poetry A old poem. I learn I wasn’t important after second brother committed suicide in 1989. I learn to be kind to… Continue reading
Tag Archive: Writing
Love of my life. And a beautiful Hope Winter song.
Love of my life. I caressed her beautiful face and I told her. I am going to love you forever. I promise dear Angela. I won’t leave you alone and I will be… Continue reading
You are my poetry, my dearest love.
You are my poetry my dearest love. I was a soldier, wandering the world seeking adventure and I learn. One day, I was alone. I learn, if you escape home for a long… Continue reading
Fable love.
(I behold today the first warm day of Spring. I’m finding hope and energy in the new-born flowers and the new greenery of the forest.) Fable love. I have been swimming in the… Continue reading
Time is a cold-hearted thief. And a amazing Nick Cave song.
I do; dear I do. Once I knew the sea, once I knew the mountains and once I roamed deep into the forest. And once I knew the sweetness of true love. I… Continue reading
An New Orleans lullaby.
An New Orleans lullaby. I was station at Fort Hood for six years. I was the Dancing Coyote, always seeking laughter, good drink and pretty ladies. I Befriended a New York state gal.… Continue reading
The hanging tree. And a wonderful Rachel Zegler song.
The hanging tree. In 1991, I needed nothing, I wanted nothing. I was seeking the good death. A pretty lady with the saddest eyes in Michigan, she asked me. What are seeking Johnnie?… Continue reading
The human touch.
The human touch. A Poem by Coyote Poetry The easiest gift to give is concern, time and to listen. In a world of fast pace and little time. We must slow down and show… Continue reading
Blue eyes.
Blue eyes. A blue-eyed angel is crying for me.In the turmoil of a kind love.The paradise of burning and powerful emotion.It can create a strange prison. I hold her too tightly,then I don’t… Continue reading
We were young once.
We were young once. “We poets in our youth begin with gladness; But there off in the end despondency and madness.” Wordsworth “Soldiers rest! Thy warfare o’er, Dream of fighting fields no more:… Continue reading