Poem Word

Words wrung out from the years
Words ripped out from between old ears
Words once made sense so long ago
Mind those words that come with tears

Smiles caressing across the years
Smiles addressing lingering fears
Smiles that no longer make sense
Mind those smiles bracketed in tears

Wine glasses clinking in rhyme
Wine glasses filled in rhythm
Reds and whites up to the brim
The old sot, you can hardly see ‘em

What’s the word? That from you?
That smile? Is it really love full true?
Fill my glass…you choose the vintage
Drain my glass, but don’t leave me blue

Yes, you’re full in my head
And you may certainly lead me to your bed
Smiles with wine promise the very level best—
But you’ll just leave me with tears instead

Keep your eyes open and your heart engarde
Why, oh why must love be so blessed hard

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Summer Fancy

Across the dank protean mire
On the slope of a mowed field
The breeze rumples a page over
And the lass missed the poets last verse
Bewitched by the youth’s jogging pace passing by
She dared imagine his arms about hers
And pondered about passion’s cruel curse

The sudden rain scampered our lass
While the boy turned north and to dorm
The promise of Summer freshened newly
Like Latin winds bringing Mercury back to Rome
And a new Arachnida’s web is woven
Life and Death never pause nor long tarry
A half Moon finds the eve’s far horizon
Rooms aren’t the only thing empty back home

Shy winking stars spangle up
To make smart the Southern sky
Lass and lad miles apart wash dishes done
Neither knowing the others’ longing heart
Many mini plans made for reading nooks
A mighty edifice rises in the Tangipahoa
A counselor and her crook’s getaway suite
In a half-told love tale just at the start

Aloning on New Year’s

Tried to share her in a poem,
But the heart would not scan.
Trying to forget all about her—
I fail, trying as hard as I can.
Winds turned to colding;
The heater runs all day;
I can see each wispy breath—
Singled out in about every way.
Staple-gun together some words,
But joy and doubt won’t rhyme.
Aloning it again on New Year’s—
It’s Love for sometwo else’s this time.
But, it’s all good for this po little coda.
And, yes please, a lil more rum for my soda.

Patience Exacts

My mind is gone
My time is not my own
My heart is besotted
My dreams on hold
My wishes burn soft
My hopes transmit
I pray for you the simple very best
Your hug and kiss await
With anticipation

Chopin Prelude Number 13

The pretext to context—
I’m not supposed to be here:
That’s what my father told me.
But here i am, dropping a tear.
Now, quit my next job,
As brother suffers the same.
How do i talk with you
To get out of this game?
i had a true love;
i failed her so bad;
Now i have a daughter—
Damn, how can I do ‘Dad?’
Pallbeared in Marble Falls,
A family ripped apart,
I can’t do this any more
With this ignorant heart.
Brother, thankfully, didn’t die,
Though anger rules his house.
I’d love to be of help,
But he only sees another louse.
So i put down these lines
To see where can I go—
Can we really ever help?
No? Yeah, I suppose I should know.
But here i am, dropping a tear.

Etiquette Fail

And so the time has come to go.
Thanks for your time and the Music and the Love;
Wisht I’d better acquitted myself,
And had earned a place up there high above.

But I’s just another fat American
With no one else better to blame;
Like Journalism on the Progressive bias—
All part of the same tired game.

But what are these chest pains:
Signal push-ups or Pearly Gates?
Gotta go to work tomorrow
With a boss who blithely hates.

So, have another glass of merlot—
Twas an unassuming vintage.
But I’ll miss you ever the most:
Thou of sterling mintage.

But it hurts a bit right here,
Around about where my broken heart lies.
Bury me next to Momma or scatter me in Sandbridge;
Try not to mind those nipping sand flies.

But you better not fail me:
You best try to find the Real;
Don’t lie, don’t drug, don’t cheat,
And never, ever lower yourself to steal.

Now, it’s past time to leave.
[Never got that part right]
Adios muchachos,
Bon soir, and good night.

Happy Mom’s Day

Tattered apron and a stout heart,
Soup toiling in a bowl flavored with hugs aplenty,
And ever more’s a part
To paint that picture of Mom—
We remember she:
Who brushed away all the tears,
And our shock of hair covering our view of her unending
Loving support no matter how foolish our fears.
Attending every school play,
Helping with Math and that awful Science project,
And packing the best lunch every day—
Hey, Mom, this is for you.