My day begins before the sun’s rise.
My cat meows and I open my eyes,
I stumble downstairs and she gets fed.
If the weather’s bad we go back to bed.
If the weather’s good we’ll stay awake.
I’ll boil some water and coffee I’ll make.
Then off to the porch, facing due east.
The sky lights up and eyes will feast.
The dark now shed the future’s begun.
We’ve choices to make; good, bad or fun.
I choose fun because that’s always good.
The bad’s unchosen that’s understood.
An hour passes and sometimes two.
Where the time goes I have no clue.
Often I write or just sit and ponder.
I think of life and what I squander.
The sun gets high, the workday’s soon.
There’ll be hustle and bustle till late afternoon.
The clock ticks slower thinking of home.
Then back to the porch where minds can roam.
A long week’s near its end.
Bumps and bruises on the mend.
The weekend’s here and much deserved.
Time well spent and memories preserved.
Friends surround, new and old.
Enjoy the calm and adventure bold.
Monday’s soon, no time to spare,
double the pleasure with one to share.
No Down Side
not about making things up,
it’s making things work.
If love made as much
as the time I spend writing,
I’d no time to write.
Love is beautiful,
when all else is not. Love is
all when from the heart.
In times of worry and feeling stress,
when plans made become a mess,
you’ll find the answers no need to guess.
You’re surrounded by friends, no need to regress.
Troubling thoughts we will address,
my care for you I’ll gladly express.
Our love will grow stronger, never less.
And when a hug’s needed I’ll always say yes.
Yesterday’s banked, tomorrow’s free.
Value’s relative but worth you’ll see.
Invest yourself and profits soar.
Share goodwill and you’ll get more.
Money’s made and money’s lost.
The time that’s spent is the cost.
There are no rain checks or returns.
The change that’s kept is what one earns.
Rich or poor, young or old,
forget the bull you’ve been sold.
I’m here to say, without a doubt;
love is what this life’s about.
The mistletoe’s gone for another year.
Alarm bells ringing bring no cheer.
The party’s over, Monday’s arrived,
the holiday’s done, at least I survived.
Back to normal I must now go.
Work I must to pay what I owe.
Bills are coming and debts surely grew.
Saving’s diminished; it’s time to make new.
Coffee is drunk but the mood is sober.
I’ve interest to pay, maybe done by October.
A resolution I’ve made to end this spree.
But Valentines is coming and gifts there will be.
So returns I’ll exchange as sales are waiting,
There are deals galore, no time for debating.
There’s much to do to start this New Year.
Hopefully by spring my plan will be clear.
Our Wrinkle in Time
Work is what we do,
when not doing what we want.
Like death but with pay.
Time is space between.
Between matters and doesn’t.
Distance less with light.
Love is energy.
Hearts, minds and bodies unite.
Work is looming,
my mind is zooming.
The clock is no friend.
The day’s yet started,
yet I wish its end.
The future’s bright,
if just to fight.
But time does run.
The race beats on,
to the rising sun.
The past’s the guide,
gloom’s to subside.
Better moments await.
Tomorrow we’ll see,
if not too late.
With each day we do learn,
life is more than we yearn.
Responsibilities never end,
more to share and to lend.
We give and take for others sake,
returns in kind for us to make.
Care is given when received.
Truth abounds when not deceived.
Time propels, weights constrain,
with each second the past we gain.
Hearts and minds of equal measure,
balance stacked for us to treasure.
Skies brighten and again to dim.
Stars don’t shine on a whim.
Thinking love, feeling wise,
tomorrow’s I hear are before our eyes.
A poet doomed I’ve started believe’n.
The odds it seems much better than even.
T’was born on an even day, month and year.
And I’m a Libra to boot, if you care.
An INFP, I think that means I feel stuff.
And if that alone wasn’t enough,
I’m fair of skin, odd of weight and six feet even.
A poet doomed and my name’s even Steven.
The irony of poetry is empathy’s hard.
For the poet must feel without regard.
A give and take crossroads born,
the soul deep, the deeper torn.
The weight of words a heavy load,
if not to express then to implode,
Fictional thought won’t save the day.
The reality is hearts bleed anyway.
I worry about writing, I worry when not.
I worry too much, I worry a lot.
The past I feel and the future I see.
Factor’s deduced and nothing’s free.
Can it be afforded, an unknowable time?
Can life be spent on rhythm and rhyme?
Can I feel without getting hurt?
Can I grow without eating dirt?
Chained to my pen, the outside looms.
In dusty volumes this life entombs.
Can pages torn be chapters shared?
If a binding’s broke should fate be dared?
Sheets to the wind, covers tossed.
My quill floats off, I am lost.
Paces excel and alter trips forgot.
Will the sunshine burn, I worry a lot.
Loving’s easy to fall’s hard.
“Tis the life of this old bard”
Futures await a new sunrise.
Honesty’s seen feeling lies.
Eyes gaze upon another’s soul.
Walls unscaled take a toll.
When “I love you” whispered,
volume’s to oft heard.
The vision’s carried in the heart.
We’re to shed with care, as an art.
A curse, demon, gift or friend,
a love of love can never end.
Wheels turn, neutrals unknown.
Reverse a journey and forward’s grown.
Loving’s easy, to find’s hard.
“Tis the life of this old bard”
Why must I rise so early from bed?
Why don’t the thoughts leave my head?
Why can’t my answers pass the test?
Why do my dreams never rest?
Why does every day need a new start?
Why won’t this passion leave my heart?
No, I don’t want to write anymore!
Unless that’s what all this feeling’s for?
The soothing of a poets heart
But for lover’s not
That’s Not Funny
Is laughing at our failings
And with good reason
Failing to See a Point
No longer obsessed
By success or of failure
I’m used to failure
No Hocus Pocus,
time’s to focus.
I’ve faced much dread,
dreams again shed.
And I’ll rise from the trash,
of once certainties ash.
There poetic ember burns.
Passion is as passion yearns.
A phoenix again will rise,
glowing to dry teary yes.
Where risen to a painted sky.
The muse is I.
Work’s OK, but never fine.
But time with you is always divine.
The weeks are long, weekends not.
Though our time together I like a lot.
But the day will come when time is free.
And years aplenty to grow tired of me.
A thought a glance a word or line.
What will inspire tomorrows’ rhyme?
It could be anguish or love, death or a bug.
Maybe it’s the past, future or running out of time.
Or maybe not, sometimes the present forgot.
A mind’s sometime scattered with distraction sublime.
Walls can be high and we leap or crash.
This time time leapt for today’s tomorrow’s rhyme.
Inner roots entrenched un-nurtured.
Branches straggled poetic, undeterred.
Once lost in space above the din,
depths blurred visions within.
Years consumed by sheer ambivalence.
The forest’s unseen, unseen for relevance.
The knowable hidden for unknown fear.
Darkness sweeps focus clear.
Cloud’s parting from the blues of green.
Sunbeams felt, sky’s now seen.
Whilst logging life milled in rhyme,
nothing’s saved, saved for next time.
It was a long day at work and away from you.
But daydreams of tomorrow helped me through.
Our day shared lovingly hand in hand.
Our evening we’ll dance to your favorite band.
The night will end with a long passionate kiss,
then followed by another just in case I miss.
Ever have a day when nothing goes right?
You get up late from a sleepless night.
The gray surrounds with no refrain.
The day’s chilly with dreary rain.
Inhale some eggs with runny yolks.
Now running behind but out of smokes,
detoured to the store to buy some more.
Rush to work, tip toe through the door.
But the boss is there, bad news had.
A report’s disappeared, computer’s bad.
The day runs long, no time for lunch.
Tomorrow’s the same, I’ve a hunch.
Then finally home but all alone.
Heat’s off and chilled to the bone.
Boiler’s ready, thermostat’s not.
Batteries needed that I forgot.
Hunger’s remembered, cupboards bare.
Cereal found, no milk to spare,
so half a box will have to do.
Nights half over, I’m glad it’s through.
Off to work, but that’s OK,
cos my sweetheart I’ll see later today.
A quiet diner and a little TV,
I’ll hold her and she’ll hold me.
Before goodnights a last long kiss.
Tomorrow will come, tonight I’ll miss.