Thomas Plotz

Poems must rhyme, so they say, simply isn't true. For there are others with depth and thought, that truly will just due. A good example of poems that do not rhyme, are the ones they call haiku.

The poet Robert Frost wrote 138 poems and plays; some of those don't rhyme. I'm sure, he wrote more; but some were discarded in time. That is my goal, to write 138 stories, of fall, winter, water, and the garden gate. Just enough, to say I tried; by making my mark before I die.
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Mermaid girl, swimming

Big brown eyes, with soothing smile
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Warm December day

I walked alone,
But I wasn’t
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Rising morning bound
First thing I found

In the pantry or by the stove
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I have nothing to say
I have nothing to say,

Maybe, it will hit me, just as I'M writing
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Head down,
Stand at almost the utmost,
End of the room
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I'm a stronger man because of you,
Saved from streets of life's ground plan
Filled with confusion and
Discombobulation of my mental reflection
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I saw a man the other day that goes by many names
Dressing in disguise, to fool his foes
As that goes, it’s confuses me immensely,
The ultimate game of hide and seek
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Relentless Love Is -
Yours pursuit for us, with fighting spirit
Leaving me breathless and honored
With your unyielding love
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I love you, my friend
My girlfriend, standing before the masses
Speaking from the arena, with the clashes
Peering into her soul
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For I still feel the same
For I still feel the same
For I still feel the pain
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OMG
It's been so long
Since I've written anything at all,
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Like that,
The warmer winter changed;
Snow began to fly.
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Teal Blue
The color in-between

Not quite as blue,
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The Lovely Moon shines
On your rare, skin bare
Blinding me with - illumination of your beauty
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Light shimmering through the old
Fox Ridge Pines,
Dancing between, the needles of time.
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Lost without question
The truth will make you shake
Lost without Hope
The sun will make you bake
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I have read, all the poems you posted.
I have heard, the songs you sung.
I'm trying to find you too.
I'm trying to find, what I have missed.
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Bacon oh bacon, gelatinous goodness, smoky, salted taste.
Cooking slow; till your perfection. Baking Bacon; in the land of Lincoln, at early morning light. Sizzling bacon, crackling in a cast iron pan; rendering the fat down with delight. Cooking slowly, concentrating the bacon flavor. Filling your home with aroma; drops of vapor, drift from room to room, with a peaceful alarm. You're not mistaken, when waken with bacon. The scent alerting your family members and pets, to wake up and make hast, to the table.

Bacon, pick your flavor, pick your cut. Thick cut, thin cut, super thick, Canadian. Try fully cooked, apple wood, cherry wood, or hardwood. Making bacon the way you want.
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Winter days, grey covered skies
Why do we love this land so?
59 square miles of island, In the Forgotten Borough
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