I never amounted to nothing,
Much to the chagrin of those
Who knew me when I wanted
To be something– amazing
How the one can lead to other
When enough force is pressed
Against the first, making
A bit of positive reaction possible.
Posts published in “Poems”
I’m the type to work on Friday
Before Monday morning comes/
That way of thinking lends a
Way of glossing over the troubles
Leading to the perfect day, Fri-day/
And I begin to look back on
all the hours bringing me to
Here/there/then, when I
Rested amongst the shades
Of leaves, leaving me to speak
With the humble bee, and they whose
Homes, tree’, made me sing;
I followed the breeze to turn and
Help those in need, or provide
A simple acknowledging
Of they who surround me without
Knowing me or Who brought me
Here, Friday.
Before Monday morning comes/
That way of thinking lends a
Way of glossing over the troubles
Leading to the perfect day, Fri-day/
And I begin to look back on
all the hours bringing me to
Here/there/then, when I
Rested amongst the shades
Of leaves, leaving me to speak
With the humble bee, and they whose
Homes, tree’, made me sing;
I followed the breeze to turn and
Help those in need, or provide
A simple acknowledging
Of they who surround me without
Knowing me or Who brought me
Here, Friday.
Monday Morning Setbacks
How many times,
How many ways
Must I tell you
Before you stay?
A hundred years from now,
Whether we prolong life
Or continue to die, somehow
I will be where you are.
Led by breathing, my presence, I,
Will find a way to be anywhere–
Where you are.
Brought on by fitting bursts of madness,
His hands shake as he walks, cold
In an otherwise sunny atmosphere.
Eyes, wound like clock, tick his steps
To see where someone with no one around
Goes to be alone.
…and the furry monster transforms landscapes
as he crashes down, amongst the mountainous range
…of tan, lifeless leaves Fallen to be
in places they never thought they’d see
when ‘ttached to limb of tree.
Is it the writer’s fault that they think of what they write and its impact, well before it meets your eyes? Yes, because if they can take merit, they can take blame. But what blame is to be measured by gross feats that leave you within writer/mind’s eye?
Trying to edit what you’ve written is like teaching an old subject to new students.
I am in a crowd,
with everyone around seeing nothing
of who I am. Then,
you see me and say
my name with that little winked smile. And,
I crumble from obscurity to the one on throne,
surrounded by my lovely wife’s eyes.
You bring me to the pedestal I always avoided,
making sure we bring the world
a little more laughter than we cake take in; you
bring me to what seems to be a part of this world,
much more than I could ever carry alone.
A photo of ourselves
Is more an indication
Of self value
And self awareness
Than any quiz
Or friend’s interpretation.
I long held comedy my armor,
To be worn in public and private both;
Yet, I do not need such now, as I
I have maturity and life experiences
Which I had not before and may not again.
A wise man makes photographs of those he loves
His outward reflection, for he knows
You want to know him,
And what better way than by who he is.
Droopy leaves,
Furry trees,
Red kisses shown when sudden breeze.
How much I love a walk in winter’d early weather; when Fall but rains on tall shoulders in a stroll!
I always do this.
I stay awake and search for some knowledge/
Something I can learn and digest;
And, when I’ve found the night’s well dry,
I slink to sleep, defeated.
I never go to sleep exhilarated, or as though
I’ve championed something. I always rub my eyes
And bury my head, slowing breath to sleep.