Wealth isn’t measured by dollars;
it’s measured by our sense.
Money can’t buy happiness,
unless we’re happy with pretense.
Joy comes from simple pleasures,
like a sunset or a baby’s smile.
Laughter’s always free,
whether old or a juvenile.
Heath too is very important,
as our feelings always show.
We can’t make a living,
when life’s value we don’t know.
Though love can require work,
it yields our greatest return.
So invest your time in others.
And self-worth you’ll then earn.
If you’re having manopause a guynecoligyst you must see.
They’ll gently cup your stuff and ask you how you pee.
It should come as no surprise, it happens when we age.
There’s little cause for worry and no need for any rage.
As we all grow older things will begin to move.
Sometimes things won’t work even when we’re in the groove.
The pain at times can rightly get us scared.
But if the boys were gone you know you’d feel weird.
If you just felt a twinge your time is soon to come.
But if you feel anything it’s better than being numb.
I know I’m not a doctor, but I know one thing for sure.
To keep the golden nuggets, wishing is not a cure.
Touched by humility with time to wait and see.
Humorously dashed to experiment in honesty.
Words can be precise but only when alone.
Much like life itself, it’s dark and damp beneath the stone.
A curious squirrel climbs a lilac to explore my porch.
We both wonder why I’m here.
The squirrel retreated though not defeated.
It is they who won, I remain seated.
Less I digress, more to be sure.
Life changes on a dime, I left to write with only rhyme.
Chaka baby beckons beyond, nostalgic breath I’m fond.
Dancing in an imaginary chair, day’s gray, air just fair.
Nicotine lingers, perhaps to know this first.
Sinking, swimming and drowning and yet still the thirst.
Thoughts flood of minutes, days, weeks and years.
Words flow when controlled by the moon and a sea of tears.
Laughter waves at depths unfathomable.
And the ring of life is forever shareable.
Journeys don’t end when the seeing changes.
Time begins anew when life engages.
My mind is weary; it’s a pile of abstract fluff with no thoughts to puff.
But I’ll write again tomorrow, cos enough is never enough.
Glasses half full of
polluted water are no
better than empty