My beloved
When you were playing on your piano
Your music visited my balcony, and
Tapped my door
The charming tones invited me to join you there
Each movement of your fingers on the keys
Tickled my sensations
A music that took me beyond my thoughts, the moments
I will believe those songs were meant for me

Is my Mother with the angels
in her heavenly seat.
And does she watch over me
with angels at her feet.

When I think of how she lived
I feel like I'm with her again.
Does she know all of my faults
and love me just the same.

I wonder where my Father is
does he stand at heaven’s door.
And does he know, I write poetry
just like he did before.

When my heart is in my poetry
it feels like I’m with him too.
Does his spirit help me to write
the way he’d want me to do.

Simply gifted…

What gift would you give,
a man hungering to a death.
Would food be enough,
as he finally sucks breath.

And after its given,
proudly you’d stand tall.
Or can you consider,
that its not a gift at all.

To wet the lips of a child,
who’s dying of thirst.
May salve your conscience,
but you wont be the first.

Does that water wash
a single stain of guilt.
Truly we must avoid,
defence, so tardily built.

Speak to the heart
Of a dying man
Corroded by the words
Said in gradual
Discourse.

In a strange hour
He will be freed.
The flask of his thoughts
Stained
And emptied.

GOODLUCK A NATION?

Goodness marrying luck makes a name

So much power in it, made it fame

A name is not a game

Games wear many names

Distinct this yet appears as appeal

Behind the name, is a Jonathan

A dove, born into humility’s manger

A portrait speaking unending possibilities

Servant of all, the commander in chief

Beacon of hope, lightening a dark pained past

Shining star, all depressed gaze

Speak the truth, act the same

Promise all, keep the oath

Lead the way, our willingness will follow

She is a prisoner of herself.
Her dreams, she dreams are
Not her own. The tears she
Cries are scarlet in color. She
Is not a master of her domain.
No one to talk with, she feels
As though her gullibility has
Been betrayed.

She walks alone upon this earth.
It seems to be so lonely for her.
Clouds float wickedly above her.
The clouds are ready to burst into
Flames. The fiery furnace scorches
All her irony.

This old sweater,
White ribbed wool,
Heavy,
With times we’ve spent together,
The patterned puffs ,
And yarn stitched lines,
By myth I’m told.
But tell my friends as true,
Were first used as family signs,
So those Aron sailors
Washed ashore were known.

Each time I leave my door I see
far mountain ridges taunting me
their deep valleys and steep hill sides
never again will feel my strides

For my story has way too much past
the years have caught me up at last
yet I still have my memories
of traipsing among tall spruce trees

And wading rivers and catching trout
where riffles murmur and rapids shout
walking far to set up camp
ignoring both the cold and damp

The house now stands empty
where the old folks used to be
waiting to be filled again
with the sounds of a family.

Maybe a child at play
on some afternoon
or just the sound of a radio
playing a well known tune.

I will always remember the old man
with his tales of long ago
of how he lived as a working man
and the folks he used to know.

And I’ll remember the old man’s wife
a little anxious, like she could be
but always happy to spend some time
sharing a laugh with me.

By three am's deepest light
I had a sudden strange insight
that nothing new inside my brain
could sit and fester and just might
be nothing at all.

I used to hear dull people query
"how'd he come up with that theory?",
"where do his ideas come from?"
but now I look around, eyes bleary,
and ask the same.

A huge blow to my rampant pride,
but now there's nowhere I can hide
I'm just an ordinary man
with nothing special deep inside.
That is the price.