Archives

DAYS SUCH AS THESE

You awaken to the alarm clock’s incessant tug,
a daily bug up your ass that tells you it’s time
to start over and face the world anew.
It’s  just you (it’s always just you)
who begins the day the exact same way:
brewing a pot of liquid motivation,
dressing for your dreams of success,
and holding hope that expressing your heart
in the guise of poetic ponderance
will exorcize the demons buried deeply
in the center of your tired psyche.
You might be too old for this shit,
but it beats the alternative, so you live
one day at a time and you never mind the burden.
Some days are like that; some days are better.
Let her dictate the dance and take your chances
while you still have the gumption. Your major
malfunction is that you wouldn’t be in this position
if you didn’t have the heart for it. You use your poet
words to both curse the darkness and shed your single light
on unsuspecting souls. It’s you who controls the emotion,
your iambic devotion to the process gives you
strength to battle the elements that surround you;
should it confound you, than you’ll be no worse
that the rest of the populice. A cathartic release,
a “do as you please” attitude that will serve you well.
What the hell, you were built for days such as these.

Walt

FATHER’S HAND

“A street is no place to play”
you would say as you clasped her
hand, gentle in its unsurety.
Held in the purity of her heart,
she sees you as a leader.

“Look both ways” you would say,
“to be sure that it’s okay”
And she stand toes-to-curb erect,
able to detect the proper moment
that she will follow her leader.

“Hold my hand” you assure her,
your tender flower with the enthusiasm
of a sponge; waiting to sop up all
that you pour before her. She looks up
and smiles. “You lead, Daddy.”

Lessons learned at her father’s hand,
the kind of man she wishes to grace her life,
when she is ready to become a wife.
Standing at the end of this magnificent aisle,
she’ll take your hand. Walking together once again.

All in the name of her father’s hand.

Walt

WASTED TIME

Seconds tick.
The tympany of lost moments
left to linger in the anteroom of thought.
In the expanse of eternal existance,
we offer resistance to the passing of days,
hoping to delay their demise; returning with
each new rise of the sun. But, when we are done,
will we be remembered for all we strived to be?
Or will we be forgotten in the unmarked grave
of obscurity? Our procrastination is telling.
Time’s a wasting. There’s no tasting success
until we kick up our heels and initiate.
Tick, tick, tick,…

**For micro poetry’s prompt, “AND I QUOTE…” – “If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin.” ~ Ivan Turgenev

Walt

AUNT JANE

Floating in a sea of her own perspiration,
she clutches the bed sheets like a life preserver.
Vacant is her stare, a weapon of every ache and pain
ingrained in her broken heart.
Showing little life; her eyes clench
closed to the world of familiarity,
a similarity to the other residents
who have found themselves left
to languish in lassitude.
Aunt Jane appears to be asleep,
tears seem to weep through her slumber.
The touch of a tender hand is all
that stands between life and the abyss.
A gentle kiss on a timeworn cheek
eyes flutter to a bleary peek
at the face inches from hers.
“How are you Aunt Jane?”
Her tired eyes smile briefly.
“Better” she whispers,
turning to her pillow with a sigh.
In that moment, she found recognition.
In her condition, it was more that I had hoped.
You don’t care that you’ve been forgotten.
You embrace that brief flash of lucidity
and accept that life still caresses her heart.

Walt

CROSSROADS (A sonnet for my cousin, with love)

Psalm 139:16. … all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be.
James E. Powers, Jr. 
September 23, 1952 – November 19, 2010

He stands between the living and the dead,
as ailing lungs no longer understand
the expectations of a heart in dread,
not willing to let go of all it planned.

Though comatose, his mind exerts its will,
Not giving up, nor knowing how to cope;
As loved ones, keeping vigilant, instill
An ember of illuminating hope.

Sad we cannot return to days of old,
Of playing ‘til the streetlights called us home;
Now, heart-in-throat, we watch events unfold;
Our desperate pens add chapters to his tome.

Yet, God imparts His own life-giving breath,
to give eternal life that transcends death.

Marie Elena
 
“…  just around the corner from the light of day”  The Boss

You lost the battle to breathe earth’s air this morning, but gained eternal, celestial air.  You are loved, and always will be.  See you on the other side, Punk.