Guarded and gathered with zealous pride, More treasured than the sultan's horde, Kisses, caresses and hours at your side, Priceless, treasured, craved and adored. Warm with promise of hope and renewal, Spring's rays touch my up-turned face, But absent your eye the sun takes a fall, Shining icy and cold into desolate space. Unworthy I ponder what magic was played, To win your companionship, love and trust, A debtor in truth for a future now saved, You give purpose to rise from the dust.
It's not about precision Or doing it correctly Efficiency would call it waste When done this indirectly The final product may be flawed And lack a finer finish The craftsmanship could use some work Have defects or a blemish It could be done much quicker If I did it all myself It'd last a little longer Or look better on the shelf What lesson would that teach them What mem'ries would they find If I took it from their hands And kept it just for mine
I'm bored in a meeting - so lets start a game To spark conversation, disrupt and cast blame. Search for contention in turning a phrase Impute hidden meaning to a word someone says. No matter the purpose, or just what they meant Argue at length implied messages sent. Worked up to a lather, sparks hot in the air Now sit back and watch wile the others despair.
I don't think that I'd like to live there, Too many steps to the top. No corners to park naughty children, A light that will never stop. Fog that rolls in calls for non-pointed horns, Warns sailors but wakes lookers on. Sea-spray and salt coat both precious and poor, corroding and rusting 'till gone. A lighthouse in name, it's massive and tall, Concrete and steel aren't light. Not fit for a family to call it a home, A house where I'll not spend a night.
No switch to flip nor wire nor plug Rays of brightest white Like clockworks made precise and sure each day o'rcomes the night
Inventions to enrich our lives, fill every corner, nook, and crack, Screens that glow and flash and shift, compute, process, display and track. Hush the screaming lights and sounds, seek refuge in some quiet place, Loose the chains that tie the mind, Take on a calmer slower pace.
The rhyming star is a fickle friend, With mystic rays that shimmer and bend, Around and past the would be poet, With fullest heart though none may know it. Visions of beauty and scenes in his mind, Are trapped without outlet and won't be defined, 'Till lamely he finds a flavorless phrase, Lost in a labyrinthian linguistic maze. "I was not born under a rhyming star", He howls in despair to the silence afar, An echo returns with taunting and spite, So he sets down his pen and calls it a night.
Way back in the dark ages when I was single and in college, I seriously contemplated spending the time and money required to get my private pilots’ license. I even went so far as to get a few hours behind the controls of a Cessna 182. It was enough to convince me I would love it and that I couldn’t afford to maintain it as a hobby if I was ever going to have a family. I gave up my quest before my first “solo” flight. I was disappointed, but accepted my fate with magnanimity; knowing that my first solo … Read the rest
The truth will set you free they say, Give you strength and show the way. Help you stand when threats come strong, Make clear the route to carry on. Sometimes it's true that truth is kind, Healing hands and heart and mind. But all too oft it carries weight, Truths that grind, and crush, and grate. A knowledge of a harsher sort, Breaks through to light, a sharp retort. The darkened hearts that plot and plan, To hurt, oppress, and exploit man. Patterns followed o'er again, Truth and right now labeled sin. Done before, the outcome's clear, But boldly on,… Read the rest
While much of the poetry that I write is deeply personal, this one stems from an experience I had helping a friend and colleague through the collapse and beginnings of reconstructing his marriage.
Twenty years he towed the line, In the lead or just behind, Purpose bent to meet his task, Ever solid, firm, steadfast. Many nights would find him still, At his work for hours 'till, Exhaustion bid him pause a while, Then homeward trudge without a smile. Daybreak bids him e'er again, Drawn as moth to candle's flame, Weary eyes in a care-worn face, Search for meaning in… Read the rest