Joni, playing the jazz trumpet with your voice
Joni, who hated the music business
Joni, who was attracted to artists of all kinds
Like a moth to a roaring fire
Who in turn attracted and influenced like-minded minds
Around your flaming heart
Inviting others in, hesitantly, less it hurts too much.
Joni, you grew older than your age
Joni, eternally young, for you have the voice of sincerity
And naked truth on your side.
The artist supreme.
You lasted longer on this green earth than your companion Vincent,
Your mentor Miles and the locksmith Signore Picasso, who unlocked many doors for you.
Joni, forever young
Forever in hearts who yearn to accomplish what you accomplished.
Not fame and recognition, but entering the holy of holies,
Into your inner core, where you made love to yourself.
Home is where the heart is, they say
Joni, you showed some of us the way home, and we are eternally grateful.
Joni, you laboured to express, rather than impress,
With your smattering of artistic bursts
Like a bright sun behind a cloud, unable to contain its light.
As the night creeps slowly on,
deep thoughts drift to your sweet kiss.
How it takes me to warm Paradise,
my body tingles in tender bliss.
I’m frozen in that moment,
floating on desire’s cloud.
Soft sighs echo in my lonely soul,
lifting the veil of this loveless shroud.
I long to be in that place
where we are alone all night,
on a big rug by a roaring fire
where love rules and everything is right.
I remember your laughter;
the gleam in your sexy eyes.
The candle flames seem to dance in time
to our body moves and pleasured cries.
Passion filled our spirits full
as all longings were fulfilled.
Every sensual feeling released
while love’s enchanted hearts were thrilled.
I sit with my glass of wine
in front of a raging fire.
Without your love there is a great void,
to my lonely bed I shall retire.
At least there I may find you
in one of those alluring dreams.
Drifting slowly, searching for your touch
that makes love feel as close as it seems.
Mere words cannot express
The depths of my respect
And how I mourn the fact that he's not here.
His open, honest smile,
His friendly country style,
Of course his voice and music keep him near.
As kids, on Thursday nights,
My dad turned down the lights
And by a roaring fire we'd sing his songs.
I've such dear memories...
We'd sing to his LP's
Until, at last, our bedtimes came along.
Oh, how those songs inspired
And lifted my heart higher
Each time my mundane life would drag me down.
And truly I believe
It cannot be just me
Who wishes that he could still be around.
So, here's to Brother John!
He's never really gone
As long as somewhere someone shares his songs!
He was one of the best
So may his soul be blessed!
His many fans will keep his mem'ry strong.
Lately, I keep slipping back into
memories past, looking at the void
in my broken heart,
Tears falling uncontrollably like a
downpour of rain,
Sadly, they didn't ease the heartache
or the pain,
Determined to draw the line here
and now, to write a new chapter and
make a fresh start.
I will continue with the process to
heal and mend,
So that in the future, there won’t be
a need to pretend,
Armed with a page of positive words
to encourage the dwindling flame back
into a roaring fire,
And to convince both heart and soul
to renew their zest for passion and
desire.
I will hold on to Faith as the dark
shadows fade from the past,
And as a new spirit love will find me
again and I will embrace new joys with
excitement for as long as they last.
By Zyrool
Alone my world is somber & unfeeling.
I exist with cold indifference hidden well with optimism,humor,a life lived fast & loose.
To view my pain as unimportant
Turned my soul into a pitch dark bottemless pit where light and love withered and died.
Yet you endured.
Your love pierces through the void as an ember.
I will tend and protect into a roaring fire,warming me,
Lighting my way to a blindingly bright tomorrow.
There was a crooked house
in a crooked part of town
Where you could down a pint or two
and let your life calm down
A place to relax and to de-stress
with friends and glass or two.
Yes we loved that little crooked house,
with its ice cold special brew.
It was a warm and friendly place
met always with a smile
A place to sit and talk and laugh
and for us to sit awhile.
A place to go and socialise
and meet up with your mate.
A place to take a new found friend
or maybe a new date.
Alas one night there was a roaring fire
and the crooked house burned down
The structure was deemed unsafe to stand
and so was bulldozed to the ground.
We're sad to see that its now gone
and our beloved crooked house is no more.
Just sodden pile of bricks and stone
lay in a rubble on the floor.
So thank you friend and Landlord,
Landlady and bar staff.
For the friendly service with a smile
and for all the friendly chat
for all the beers served and drank
and the laughter and fun, thanks alot
we hold dear in our hearts and minds
Good times never forgot
Thanks to the little crooked house
Quote: “You are as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fears; as young as your hope, as old as your despair.”—
Samuel Ullman
In realms of self-assurance, let us dwell,
Where confidence, a beacon, brightly shines,
Like a sun-kissed gem, within us it swells,
Igniting paths where success intertwines.
Know your value, precious as pure gold,
A treasure trove within your very core,
A diamond's sparkle, strong and bold,
Unveiling worth that shines forevermore.
With every step, let confidence unfold,
Like a soaring eagle, free in flight,
Spreading wings of courage, brave and bold,
Conquering fears, embracing pure delight.
Act like the person you aspire to be,
A blooming flower, reaching for the sky,
Unfolding petals, vibrant and carefree,
Captivating hearts as time goes by.
For others will perceive what they will see,
A symphony of stars, aglow with grace,
An ocean's depth, waves dancing wild and free,
A masterpiece, a portrait to embrace.
Confidence, the seed that breeds success,
A roaring fire, ablaze with fervent might,
A soaring phoenix, rising from duress,
Guiding us towards a future shining bright.
Don't ever think my pen ran dry
It won't, it can't, and here is why
All my thoughts of you I write
And of them there's no end in sight
Some published, some for only you
To read about, the things we do
In dreams I have, of my desire
To make slow burn a roaring fire
Working out or tuning strings
Along with many other things
Or simply thoughts where you and me
Enjoy each other's company
Like the last glowing embers of a once roaring fire I wait
For the winter winds and night to blanket me in the frigid dark
A beauty, solemn, and severe
To the depths
And the bone
And the tattered heart, once in flames now languishes
Still reaching
But a flicker
The hot days of summer slowly fade away
Autumn takes over with blustery showers
tinted with some warm days others cold
still it creeps on causing leaves to curl up.
Vivid colours of browns, yellows and reds
drift down carpeting the land with piles
that hides insects ready 'to escape the cold,
land's chill and we know Jack Frost waits
He waits in the wings full of much mischief
but still is not quite time for his appearance
Autumn is not yet quite ready to stand aside
with final breath she blows, then steps away.
Leaving winter to take his place with chills
running down spines with freezing fingers
A light sprinkling of snow a warning sign
and Jack Frost steps out with great glee
He whips up a bitter wind leaving trails
in the snow, finger prints on window panes
So we snuggle close to a big roaring fire
and start longing for the arrival of spring
A rainy Sunday afternoon
Cold and gray, yet I'm immune
For sitting here right next to me
Natural beauty in human form
A roaring fire, a cup of tea
In woolen socks, my heart is warm
There's no place else I'd rather be
Blissfully oblivious to any storm
A rainy Sunday afternoon
Cold and gray, yet I'm immune
On the stove a pot of sauce
On the counter a bottle of wine
Mere words escape, I'm at a loss
One cannot explain, much less define
A rainy Sunday afternoon
Cold and gray, yet I'm immune
The table is set, I'll pour the Bordeaux
The meatballs are ready, they told me so
His eyes of gold;
peer into my soul
with a milk mustache
he licks his fancy,
torn between two worlds
reality is magical,
says him so
needing to be free,
yet longing for a hand;
to scratch his silky locks
strike while you can
his finicky soul;
dances in the wind
dreaming of playing again
his sorcery is made of stone,
annoyed by your attention
yet never wanting to truly be alone
his meow is a roaring fire;
piercing through the thickest of skulls
biscuits he serves by the claw,
treasuring every chance he gets to fall;
Quit to land on all fours,
he sprints so fast;
you could say he's climbing up doors.
I have my coffee now and
sit upon
a chair that gives me comfort;
have TV,
a roaring fire, and footstool,
and myself.
So perfect, I find it odd —
oh, so weird.
(March 2022)
I know you are here
My old, friend
Hoovering til I cover
My nakedness
With warmth
What is to bring me comfort
In this life of storm
All this grief
That clings to form
I'm tired, so sleepy
I believe I will rest
Not now my love
I must confess
I can NOT endure your
....truth
Wait...I thought you knew me
Why do you push me toward
The very thing I loathe
A roaring fire
Some wine
A nice, pink, bath robe
You have no heart
Ideals and illusions
Leading down a path
Of elliptical conclusions
....never panning out
Fools gold
I've been sold
Way too old
To be told
....truth....with any value
No, no, I will not lend an ear
I need to sleep
Medicine will take me quick
It's prescribed
Rest is essential
I haven't the will....to fight
Fight!?!
That's not right
When did I fight
What's there to fight
When the doctor is right
....I must rest
Truth stands erect
Brazen, naked, on
My resting bed
She won't be denied
My old, trusted friend
...lied
......would have rejoiced
............if I had died....yet I remain
With a life, and a hell of a lot to gain.
Written by Trudy Schrader on 02-23-2022
A flowing stream had inevitably given way.
To gently rest and recover in quiet splay.
Of the nectar stream of her fantastic brain.
Neural links coagulated on stale sustain.
Savor pulled loaves over a roaring fire.
Her leading center was a charcoal wire.
Thoughts went up in flames on the grate.
Darkened in a frigid kettle of fear innate.
Prudently, all that remained was her gold jewelry.
A contracted charm has been reduced to currency.
Expectation on a high wire; garrotte and tightrope.
The act of tearing her scrawny startup to rope.
In a frantic endeavor to cut off the unique string.
She felt frustrated over the bug that ensnaring.
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