ECCLESIASTES

Inquisitive and questioning,
the whys and what fors
come to the fore to satify
a muddled soul. All control
once thought to be ours,
becomes clearer the nearer
we come to believing.
Not as decieving as expected,
for it has been perfected
since the world was new.
And you, seekers of a truth
you can accept, expect it
to fall into you laps like manna.
But, to everything under heaven,
there is purpose, and the worst
we can do is think in terms of now.
In its time and season, everything
for a reason. A time to live and die.
A time to laugh and cry.
A time to reap and sow, don't you know?
When the time is right, you will in turn.

ONE OF THESE DAYS

I'll finally be the man I've aspired to be,
one of these days.
Happy in my station, a perpetual situation,
one of these days.
An unconvicted, man of conviction
one of these days,
who is as adept at poetry as at fiction.
One of theses days,
my wife and I will find comfort in the nest, and
one of these days,
when my daughters find their joy, it'll be the best.
One of these days
the aches and pains will be tolerable, less taxing
one of these days
I'll find time for relaxing.
One of these days
I'll walk my daughters down the aisle, and
on those days,
I'll sport a sad tear and a smile.
One of these days,
all of the projects I've started will find completion, and
one of these days
I'll finish my novel, a fine first edition.
One of these days
I'll run out of things to do, before I run out of time.
One of these days
when people say my name, they'll say "He was fine!"
One of these days.

MUSIC HATH CHARMS

Melodic memories, triggered by random turns
of phrase, a new page in your book of dreams.
It surely seems that a mind can be shaken or stirred
into a whir of activity. You possess a proclivity for
drawing upon the past long enough gone
to notate upon the staff of your life;
it is a song composed with ethos and verve.
Steeling your nerve, thrown caution becomes windblown
and all are shown the power of your voice.
A flash-back to a day when music was an ally
to rely upon, a trigger for thoughts nurtured
in the womb of your fertile mind. Gestation,
born of elation for all your songs relate;
it is never too late to write your score.
The more you remember, more tender the melody.

HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL

It is said, where there's hope, there is life.
And life carries the promise of every new dawning.
In promise, the offer of the gift of life
is glowing with love  of a Good and Gentle nature.
Nature, like the awakening of a new spring.
And in the Ever-lasting Spring of our new life,
we will take solace in knowing that hope springs eternal.

CARPE DIEM

The sun peeks
just nose high
over the horizon,
“Kilroy was here”
making the proclamation
“Arise to the new morning”
Many things in store for you
if you only keep a watchful eye.
For nothing expected
can come to any good.
Surprises haunt you at every turn
Pulses churn to the dictates
of the clear and present chaos
that is promised this morning,
and every successive one.
Stand and assume the position
to take your lumps, for
the reward for a job well done
awaits when you take up your rest.
Do not be intimidated
by the manner by which you are called,
nobody said it would be an easy chore,
only that it would be worth it at
curtains final fall.
Put forth your effort
with all the aplomb you can muster.
Face the challenges as they present themselves.
Do not back down from a fight
you will be poorly prepared to win,
and are most assuredly destined to lose,
but the fight is still yours.
Live this life. Take no prisoners.
Hold nothing back for the final reel.
Grab the bastard by the lapels
and shake like hell.
Seize the day!

NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE TO A WILLING HEART

I started writing at thirteen,
lyrics for a song I hacked out
on the old organ we had at home.

Melody first, a little loop
of sound full blown into a
song, my first attempt.

Looking at the words
scratched onto a page
of spiral notebook paper

tattered and lined
random thoughts
of a future love long gone.

It had form and meter,
it had rhyme, my reason,
a poem of sorts on my page.

A poem never to see
the light of day for years,
dead ended in a rusted file cabinet,

along with every other lame attempt
of poem and prose that
had me believing I had talent.

Maybe talent, but nary a whiff
of confidence to show the
work that was even at this early

date, very personal, a glimpse
of my inner self, the now me
in miniature, immature,

but with a dream.
To see my words light up
the pages of this book of life.

The flesh was willing,
but the spirit was weak,
my ambition was a wishful thought.

I wanted to write in the worst way,
and that was what I did,
in the worst way.

As the years passed,
I still tried to convince myself
that I was a writer, a poet

a composer, an untapped
resource in a disconnected
reality, a dreamer

working for his hearts desire.
Hard work, hard words
mired in the muse of my mind.

But determined to live
according to the dictates
of my nightly mystic visions.

I dusted off my file cabinet,
shooing the dusty webs from the
hidden treasures long buried.

I sent my words into the world
unsure of their worth,
afraid of their power.

Given to the eyes of
others of a write minded bent,
sharing similar uncertainties

of their own. They labeled me,
tattooed me with an identity.
They called me poet.

The name I wanted;
the name they offered.
Nothing is impossible.

YOU HAVE TOO MANY IRONS IN THE FIRE

So you had a lousy round of golf,
your drives were terribly short,
just tell me who would take this game
and turn it into a sport.

You’re awkward in your backswing,
you’re whacking like a klutz,
you’ve gone and insulted the women’s pro
when you asked her to look at your putts

You lost the sock for your driver,
the lake devoured your balls,
you broke six tees, and bruised your knees,
that WAS a nasty fall.

You should’ve taken a mulligan
for dressing in those knickers.
You haven’t got the legs for those,
they caused a lot of snickers.

You landed in each sand trap,
the wind was rather tough,
you hooked and sliced most every shot
that you buried in the rough.

And now you’re in the clubhouse,
you’re at the nineteenth hole,
you’re downing bourbons like they’re scotch,
you’ve surely lost control.

Your clubs have landed in the hearth,
your caddy tried to snag them,
you threaten not to sign his card
if he attempts to bag them.

The woods are near completely gone,
aglow amidst the pyre.
And all the duffers do agree,
you’ve got too many irons in the fire.

A MISS IS AS GOOD AS A MILE (A Parody)

Why so sad Miss Sour Puss?
Why do you look so dour?
Your countenance is all screwed up
It’s been like that for hours.

You have those eyes that sparkle,
Reflecting nature’s glow,
The moon , the sun and all the stars,
Where did that sparkle go?

Your pearly whites are dazzling
It used to last for days,
But lately you deny their shine
You show a murky haze.

Your dimples used to make me laugh,
Their depth so deep and true.
But they’ve been hidden just the same,
Tell me, what IS wrong with you?

You boost me up when you are up
And when you’re down, you’re awful.
Being such a crabby thing, in fact
Should not be lawful.

So spread your grin from ear to ear,
Release your womanly wile,
And don’t forget this simple rule:
A miss is as good as her smile!

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

poets are a different breed
we see the world askew
for words we use
and thoughts we choose
appear to us as new
but these old adages carry weight,
and have for many years
and how a poet expresses them
can bring one full to tears
we all have come to fill the world
with poems, prose and rhymes
even if the words we choose
were used a million times
ideas can take a different slant
with every twist and turn
to see from new perspectives
surely gives us much to learn
so we come here every Wednesday
to stoke poetic fires
to share with all our where-with-all
and profess our heart's desires
flock together poets all
whether plain or pretty
take this prompt and have a ball
and write your little ditty
birds of a feather; poets en mass
joined in this community
writing beauty from within
to give our purpose unity
So if you have a way with words
and aren't afraid to show it
join our ilk and speak your heart
and you may be a poet