In two hearts emboldened and
Mind’s see eye to eye
In two hearts emboldened and
Mind’s see eye to eye
Good memories keep,
let the bad fade – then there’s room
for when better’s made.
In a world of rhyme
all’s poetic, hearts bleeding
is life’s aesthetic.
The brightest sunrise
often occurs after the
longest darkest night
When I’m writing less
I’ve far fewer excuses
not to write better
The house is quiet and the pets at ease.
The yard awaits, says “mow me please”.
But I’ve things to think and words to rhyme,
because love comes first all of the time.
The grass can wait and those dishes too.
There’s much to do and hours so few.
So busy I’ll be in La-La land,
love in my heart and pencil in hand.
I’ll pen her poetry of love, joy and bliss,
recalling how quick was our one millionth kiss.
I’ll wax poetic and melt in her arms,
though her hotness not needed, just her charms.
I’ll say “I love you” in every possible way.
And I’ll say it often every single day,
but words meaningless when actions speak.
So I’ll finish this poem and start my week.
Good morning all, the day is bright.
Let’s sip our coffee then we’ll write.
The night is done, the demons at rest.
Pick up your pens, time to be best.
We’ll reflect upon yesterday’s past,
the good and bad that didn’t last.
Check the boxes in columns we’ve made.
And erase the X’s we hope will fade.
The mission begins with a feeling or word.
The march is forward, never deterred.
Ideas explode and emotions guide.
Pages fill with what others would hide.
The rush then over, a battle won.
Some bring tears while others fun.
Sheets bare awaken surprise.
Good morning all lets open our eyes.
We’re off to the swap meet today.
Dad says its work, I say its play.
Mom thinks it’s all a bunch of junk.
Who needs an old cast iron skunk?
Every year since I was two.
Seen the toes of many a shoe.
In my wagon with squeaky wheel,
once pulled string from an old fly reel.
Saw a ship of wood, bone and hair.
Dad got nervous, said don’t go there!
Great memories of dad and me.
I wish that mom would come and see.
Up before dawn, first at the gate.
If you’re not first, well than you’re late.
I think that second’s also OK.
Don’t follow, go the other way.
A laugh a push a yawn and sneeze.
New spring pollen made someone wheeze.
We’re squashed on the fence right up front.
Soon we’ll start a new treasure hunt.
The gate opens, I think we won.
I don’t care; I’m here to have fun.
We see faces we’ve seen before.
But the new ones are a lot more.
Soon the sun will rise in the sky.
Down the rows with treasures stacked high.
A day of fun, ready to learn,
Something new at every turn.
We pass the women in her shawl.
Sits alone, sells nothing at all.
Walking past, I’d wave and say hi.
But never did I catch her eye.
But now I’m ten, no chaperon.
Maybe she smiled because I’m grown.
She waved me over to come right in.
Glad to see her never seen grin.
I gazed into lots of old stuff,
even the best looked kind of rough.
She told me stories of each thing,
corner chair and ancient nose ring.
“I never sell my things of old.
They can’t be enjoyed when they’re sold,
loan things to friends once in a while,
like you” she said with a big smile.
“I’ve watched you pass since you were small.
On your dads’ shoulders, eight feet tall.
I’ve seen you smile and watched you grow.
Each time passing you’d say hello.
Walking past, eyes open wide.
You never dared to come inside.
Talking to strangers is unwise.
If I scare you, I apologize.”
She gave me a book that’s quite small,
not too many pages at all.
The book kept dreams lost in your head,
while you were sleeping in your bed.
She opened the book to page three.
Then whispered some secrets to me.
“Dreams are wishes stuck in your head.
They only come out when in bed.
Sleeping soundly, eyes shut tight,
mind wondering all through the night.
When you wake to start a new day,
write down those dreams before you play.
Follow your heart wherever it goes.
Record your trip in lovely prose.
Don’t stop writing until you’re done.
It’s never work when it’s all fun.
First open the book carefully.
Than close your eyes and wait to see,
all your dreams will come back to you.
But it might take a week or two.
Just be patient, don’t ever fret.
All things good you never forget.
I need not tell you anymore,
complete instructions on page four.”
She found a box, it fit just right.
I couldn’t wait to sleep that night.
Tied it up with ribbon and bow.
She gave me hug, told me to go.
It’s been a long winter since then.
Yes I’ve used up many a pen.
I wake each morning at sunrise.
Wipe the night’s sleepys from my eyes
Mom saw me writing early one day.
She asked to see, what could I say?
Together we both read out loud.
We laughed and hugged, she said she’s proud.
Now up after dawn, we’re not late.
Family’s first, treasure can wait.
Another year, there’s much to see,
at the swap meet; mom dad and me.
I hope to see my new old friend,
I’ll share my news with happy end.
I tried hard and my wish came true.
Now mom comes to the swap meet too!
Available at: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/470879
Behold this welcome image.
Where a hill rises from a bay.
There a tiny sheltered village lay.
All in the shadow of Windmill Cottage.
Steady breeze most every day.
Sails from afar spill their goodwill.
From their nets sea treasure abound.
Farms thrive above on fertile ground.
Good fortune trickles down the hill.
Sea birds fill the air with sound.
Ancient timbers shade from lofty stage.
Labored grain grows upward at the season’s rate.
Winds howl, warmth’s aglow on the hill top grate.
Flour flows freely down from Windmill Cottage.
Where nature’s breath spins the wheel of a poets estate.
He attends happily to familiar chores.
Quarterly ledgers bulge beneath waistcoat fair.
His quarterly journey to the bankers’ lair.
His shadow alone opens Main Street doors.
Harvest moon will guide homeward the fortunate heir.
Dusk creeps up as day slips by.
Modest and ordered with nothing ablaze.
Must avoid the many scrupulous gaze.
In the shadows inhibitions die.
A visit with strangers, heads all a daze.
Journey’s end in darkness where hill meets bay.
Tufted coaches dash the posh up to their inns.
Others huddle by fire pits drinking homemade gins.
The trades of the night swap those of day.
Church bells echo, atoning for their sins.
Just another blurry face on the wooden shores.
Where the day’s death lingers and ships bells ring.
Taverns fill, ale flows and drunken sailors sing.
Fiddles play and jigs are had on the dirty floors.
Habitual killers all, Oh what joy they bring
Few will stay, most homeward bound.
Some laugh loudly while others cry.
Some will fight, some will die.
In search of peace to be found –
In the deep or endless sky.
Faceless comfort fills empty space.
Men with silver are sick for a day.
Boys with gold suffer years away.
Moonlit romance lingers on perfumed lace.
Then life’s anew beyond the tiny bay.
Sharing much common thread,
In this moment “ brothers all.
Whale lamps flicker on sooty wall
Making friends while breaking bread.
All await the Bosun’s call.
In a corner where shadows overlap.
The poet searches for his light,
Where the day’s brew flows all night.
Safe, for now from his hilltop trap,
Layers of darkness, out of sight.
Behold this most unwelcome image.
The seat no more where the poet presides.
Now in his shadow a filthy little demon hides.
Return not quenched to Windmill Cottage –
And wait again for the new moon tides?
Lonely candle spews depth on a lonely face.
Unseen pests sing their unwanted song,
The scent of time ticking long.
His travels must be many, all left a trace.
In the darkness our senses strong.
Hat brim low to hide his shame.
The poet stutters with utter surprise.
The traveler snickers, doesn’t rise.
With sideways glance he asks the poets name.
Honestly answered by the fear in his eyes.
When after long hesitation a hasty reply ”
“A traveler like you” was all that he said.
But after some ale the silence was dead.
Yard by yard many distant words fly.
Palettes grow when faces shade red.
Cider was next and followed by rum.
The traveler’s tales all told in prose.
The wetter the lips the faster it flows.
Hated by most, loved by some.
That’s how a traveler’s life often goes.
The poet a rather tall fellow.
The traveler a poet by name.
So many ports traveled they all looked the same.
His heart pumped blue, the poet gay and mellow.
Opposite sides of a coin, no one is to blame.
“With little time to hone a craft –
With a draft from an open door.
To close then return no-more.
To open then evermore – the draft.
Spirits gone, gone the craft – nevermore.”
What dribble do you speak my friend?
The poet inquired in disgusted tone.
“The dribble I think when thirsty and alone.”
The traveler quipped with message to send.
I’ll tell you another, that’s my own.
“Silent words are never heard –
The voiceless poet stuttered.
Repeated babble muttered.
His rhymes always sputtered.
More mindless words would be absurd.
The air he breathed was glutted.
His helm so poorly ruddered.
His shirts all heavily buttered.
From his many toasts self-uttered.
His mind so free and uncluttered.
His weaknesses many and unobserved.
Blinded to the Reaper’s shadow – deserved.
Soon the voiceless poet will be unheard.
Then blissful quiet on his paths wandered.
His welcome silence – forever heard.”
Drunken rabble roared with delight.
The poet withered belittled.
The traveler’s attention fizzled.
When laudanum’s sipped out of sight.
The poet escaped most grizzled.
Out of the dark into the night.
Bellowing air; cold, wet and starless.
His poisoned lips know no finesse.
His state of mind out of time – not right.
The poet’s mind wanders aimless.
The traveler tucked snugly in his bunk.
With help from many new joyous fan.
All loved the howls of this traveled Wild-man.
His tales make perfect sense “ drunk.
The favorite carried and the pompous ass ran.
Boot heals clack on cobble slick.
While stallion slumbers atop golden bed.
The poet stumbles upward with achy head.
If only to have his gilt throat-ed stick.
This shadowy path he may be found dead.
The wind that is my fortune is slowly killing me.
This hill of heritage too high for me to climb.
With forceful push from the hands of time.
Drawing me back to a frigid sea.
My misery oh-so great ” it is oh-so sublime.
Head tucked low, bottom up always slow.
Darkness wanes to purples then red.
Day is born, horrors of the night soon dead.
Hands and knees bloodied and bruised – falls of woe.
Alas the bodies of servants to guide to downy bed.
Winter’s behind, graven plans regress.
Fevered sleep past, shadows of death dawdle.
Summer awaits, the poet’s lessons dwindle.
His magnum opus went off to press.
Journey to Main Street, praise to guzzle.
Surveying high atop his magnificent mount.
The poet exclaimed “behold this welcome image”
Deceived by the bustle, not he the homage.
But a tome by a worldly traveler – no doubt.
It was “In the Shadow of Windmill Cottage”
Woe is me and you,
joy’s reserved for just a few.
Enjoy what you do.
The Way Today
A day without love
is lonely, love yourself and
never be alone.
A poet is a
romantic who thinks too much
and love blinds when seen.
As long as there is
Writers block I’ll have something
To not write about
What am I to do?
The Me’s huddled tightly with family alert.
The We’s frolicked freely enjoying dessert.
The Me’s distrustful, their interests first.
The We’s collaborative quenching their thirst.
The Me’s too aligned ruled by a book.
The We’s had comforts the Me’s came and took.
The Me’s dispersed hiding their joy.
The We’s shared all with each girl and boy.
The Me’s sought power devising the divide.
The We’s found solace in a land far and wide.
The Me’s dictate that all is for “Me”
The logic dictates all me’s become we.
Letters we’ve sent, letters we don’t,
some we regret and some we won’t.
Some we forget, some we obsess,
some move forward, others regress.
The future will tell what we choose,
what we keep and the things we lose.
We’re in charge but not always sure,
some will quit while others endure.
Love it seems a double edged sword,
piercing the heart where life is stored.
Push too hard and the feelings gone,
though properly placed in we’re drawn.
Staying sharp we all can agree;
brings out the best in you and me.
Sharpen your pencils, grab your pad,
connect the dots and you’ll be glad.
A seeker of rainbows,
I gaze to the sky.
My world’s looking up,
as the clouds cry.
The sun returning,
the blues drift away.
gone is the gray.
A dream fulfilled,
a path to new.
My rainbow now frames,
a more colorful view.
The light of day now masks the dark.
Anxiously I await the mornings’ spark.
I watched the sunrise in the sky.
But all’s not bright and I know not why.
My pencil stays sharp as my coffee gets cold.
The day is young but the wait’s getting old.
Thoughts are pulsing through my mind.
Though a common thread I cannot find.
The world’s in turmoil but I am well.
Sales are soaring but the markets fell.
Patience grows short while lines grow long.
The weak sucked in when winds blow strong.
Yet we’ll charge ahead into the unknown,
every interaction affecting our own.
Each breath a conduit to another’s life.
All will share their joy and strife.
A new day’s begun, much as before,
we’ve only a guess of what’s in store.
The time is now to show our concern.
The window’s open to see if we learn.
Like a boat without a dock,
it’s another week of writer’s block.
I drift around aimlessly,
tossed about on a wordless sea.
The sun still rises every day.
But all the thought’s gone astray.
The tides do rise and again will fall.
It’s sink or swim because that’s all.
Equipped with pen and a pad,
afloat I’ll stay and won’t be sad.
The pages will fill, soaked in sweat.
The ink will dry with no regret.
The sands of time will shift once more.
My anchor will drop on a distant shore.
The vistas there will all be new.
Perspectives’ will change, as they do.
Horizons are always just ahead.
The breeze will lead to where we’re led.
I can’t complain, this journey’s been good.
So I’ll keep thrashing as we should.
I think my pencil’s broken,
nothing’s coming out.
I’ve tried lots of paper,
now I’m feeling doubt.
Could it be a dream,
the writing that I’ve done?
Or perhaps a nightmare,
this time I’ve spent as one.
I wake up every morning,
before the sun will rise.
My chair awaits its ass,
glasses await their eyes.
Coffee I will slurp,
watching hours burn.
If I were a younger man,
it’d be of less concern.
Time is not to waste,
though I shouldn’t squawk.
My pencils served me well,
though I may try chalk.
I know I need my fix,
words do the trick.
Perhaps I’m not a poet,
just really, really sick.
Dew glistens in the crisp of dawn,
peering out on an endless lawn.
Fresh air and sunshine I am drawn.
Soon I’ll be mowing for I am a pawn.
The king lives atop a manicured hill,
now slumbering peacefully while all is still.
Soon he’ll rise and our time he’ll kill.
His whims fulfilled against our will.
The queen too is soon to awake,
maids will arrive with orders to take.
Breakfast then served with chefs to make.
A picnic will follow down by the lake.
Their castle has towers like rooks on a board.
Treasures are many, much like a hoard.
Guards abound with shield and sword.
Musicians are hired to strike every chord.
Knights roam freely down endless halls.
They await more battles but more likely balls.
Their horses pampered in big, tidy stalls,
their messes cleaned by old women in shawls.
The bishops’ eschewed anymore plans for fun.
Soon it may be their rein is done,
king’s out-numbered at least eight to one.
Tables will turn then a new game’s begun.
The forest a muse
Trade green for the blues
Discover its clues
And feel nature’s views
The forest a muse
Sensation’s to choose
There’s many to use
And nothing to lose
The forest a muse
Sense the world’s cues
Write to amuse
And share the good news
You’re paranoid when
you use turn signals to turn
in your own driveway.
Not Berry Funny
You know you’re aging
When you imagine Aunt Bea
with long flowing hair.
by a long walk in the woods,
one foot at a time.
Seeds afloat seeking unfamiliar ground
A mother’s warmth to be found
Love is rained from parental cloud
Bed is rich beneath the shroud
Father’s push from dark to light
Growth by day and shadows of night
Journeys upward to infinite skies
A world anew to saplings eyes
Soaring towards the sun-gods call
Arms outstretched embracing all
Colors change, soon to flee
Naked spires looming free
Twigs share times weighty strife.
A forest of one can have no life
Seasoned words of maturity
Nature’s view atop the poet tree