I have not met you, and yet I feel
the emptiness of your distance.
The recurring remembrance that you are,
and that I can’t hold you.
An ache, that brings me to my pen.
You are now a force of inspiration,
with power to move emotion
by your mere existence,
and a place in my heart.
To have just one true friend
who can be trusted to understand.
To not breath a word or hint
to any other.
Just one who is true and faithful
who keeps even the unspoken confidence,
however sensational or sad
to their self.
To know just one
with whom secrets and things are safe.
Honest and pure, or ordinary.
Summer days are numbered,
I feel it in the air.
The flowers lift their vacant eyes
beneath their tired hair.
The sun that rises further south
and sets just further same,
is just not there as many hours
and nature can’t reclaim.
Thicker fur on kitty cats,
the deer begin to Know,
and gardens find their way to shelves
to ward the coming snow.
I might bethink it sadder still,
death’s Fairchild – winter snow;
just an illusion looking close
as you and I both know.
The Shrimp is a weird sort of creature
that alien look – its best feature;
The legs, there’s five pair,
4 antennae like hair,
solitary-ness much like a preacher.
Appendages all are segmented
You may think he’s disoriented
Swimming backwards he goes
when escaping his foes;
This reaction- is death circumvented.
This crustaceous creature has stalk-eyes.
As a decapod, he’s not in disguise,
as a prawn-(2 less claws)
with a few other flaws,
and his thorax, an edible size.
After peeling the carapace- de”vein.”
From this job you may want to refrain,
if you think it’s a “vein”
then you’re really insane
if I tell you, you may just abstain.
This ditty of Shrimp, so delicious
may have been much too ambitious,
but with strong shrimp cocktail
(horseradish to prevail),
is an alien dish quite auspicious.
The Raven screeches, “No Refuge!”,
and winter blows cold bleakness.
The Hawk dives in for the kill,
as night coats all in dark aloneness.
The Shark shows no mercy to feed himself.
Deep water swirls over, cutting off hope and breath.
The black Snake hisses slander and gossip
to those who feel bloatedly proud to “know”.
The Pharisee executes “judgement!, Shunning!”
Those sticks and stones wound, and kill faith.
The one who causes others to trip and stumble,
t’would be better he have a large millstone around his neck
and be drowned in the depths of the sea.
Do not nurse a hurt that isn’t yours.
Becomes a false crusade to march, but why?
Rules of battle engagement are ignored,
And bitterness is used to justify.
A grudge is just a hurt that festers wide;
A failure to ameliorate the pain.
Always taken, though denied; a side.
Endeavored absolution is in vain.
– – –
If you have a hurt that is your own,
Give it up and let it roll away,
or even if it’s deep you will be prone,
to hold the festering dear, without allay.
It’s known – it isn’t easy to forget.
Forgive it, even if they didn’t ask.
And though it may be an expensive debt,
let it go, that is your reasonable task.
She refused the proffered gift of a dead bee.
It may have been indeed, propinquity.
He left the sugared drink, in favor of tea.
It must have been the bioavailability.
Sometimes writers think they need to cuss.
I think: a simple case of mumsimus.
Her perfect pitch, to the choir was supplemental.
Strange, because she was so occidental.
She showed me how to make her sauerkraut.
What years of fermented dreams were all about.
They taught me all the perils of unbelief.
When I grew up to be good-oh such relief.
The offer of a friendship met deaf ears and cold reception.
To a lesser person, ‘twould result in sure defection.
My scratchy eyes are due to saving daylight;
I tried to sleep more to avoid the strain.
It hasn’t helped and I don’t really look right;
I’ve missed – with grease and coffee – now a stain.
I get this clumsy way when morning’s early;
groping for the coffee in the dark.
Better not to talk, so I’m not surly.
and my tripping on the dog will make him bark.
I think I’ll miss that hour until the autumn,
when we are supposed to get it back.
Up coming day length definitely will help some,
and summer sun will put red eyes on track.
The rich man was not damned because of wealth,
nor was Lazarus’ lack of it his choice.
That Dives gained his money and power by stealth
and did not listen to poor Lazarus’ voice.
His comfort and enjoyment was in life,
all striving for himself and for his vice.
Sadly, all that Lazarus saw was strife,
though after his short life was paradise.
The rich man was a sorry, stingy man,
and would not help the one whose life was grim.
He simply didn’t do those things he can
to help the ones more vulnerable than him.
This tale (or real life story, not sure which)
is not about us being rich or poor;
but rather what we do with what we have,
and what kind of treasure that you store.
I don’t get noticed, ordinarily.
Not because those with me cannot see,
But more because I’m fabulously average.
That unremarkableness is my leverage.
I do not have a following or crowd
and typically I’m just not very loud.
To be a leader isn’t what I need-
don’t really want that job, I must concede.
By definition – neither big nor little;
Average is just right there in the middle.
I’m fairly happy in my quiet place
where there’s no challenge to my poker face.
And I can think my quiet, average thoughts
and be my average self, near my flower pots.