Hypothetical question inevitably comes to mind-

When we are old and past our prime

Should “they” decide that it’s our time and take upon themselves to douse the flame?

While we cry for our beloved… cuz those that are supposed to know…

Say it’s time to let her go… and

Mourn... cuz four legged people, are people just the same…

She’s just old... as most people hope to one day be… So may

She not moan… Or

Be in pain... and

Let her ease away in loving arms with none to blame… cuz

Good four legged people,

Are good people just the same…*

.

Upon being told that I am a poet
Suggested I have my work added
To the local grade school curriculum
Meant well but
I think not...

Emily Dickinson
And
Robert Frost
I truly... am not...

This is NOT what I do

Though I do agree with Emily
who aspires to"Dwell in the possibilities"

And with Mr. Frost I concur that
"The only way out is through"

Like Dylan I
"Do not go gentle into that good night"

That is not what my poems are made of...

Racism
Newly found Love
Motherhood
And children he forgot

Addiction
*******
Loneliness
And working with what you've got

A working man's hands
A homeless man's lot
Betrayal
Destruction that genocide wrought

May not always sound nice...
But Beloved, it's life

Life is what my poems are made of

The man always met the enemy at the threshold
Lays down a carpet… grabs his crooked hand… and
Escorts him in
Clears a space for him to sit… and
Like an apostle
Cleans his busy feet of road dust
Garnered while traveling  to and fro
Seeking whom he may devour…

Then… giving him a high place…
Strained to Listen
As he whispered…
Yet is somehow still surprised
When his world is aflame… and he curses the enemy
Gives him all the blame
And the enemy laughs…
As yet another foolish man
Gives him the Credit, the Glory, the Joy and the Power

It’s okay… in my opinion… to go home to glory… with some things

left unsaid.. cuz some things are better left unsaid… and I may

never run that marathon… that for at least... five years...  

I’ve been preparing for… in my head… and should I meet my maker...

carrying that last twenty pounds… that I’ve been lying about losing … well…

let’s just say… that… since my maker made me… I don’t see a problem… and

if the Creator should call before I learned to play guitar…. cuz

I’ve always wanted to learn to play guitar… I admit it will be a

disappointment… but not as big a disappointment as it would be… if

I died with my bedroom looking like this…

Long ago day on a country porch… cuz
It was too dern hot in the kitchen…
Three generations of women
Surrounded by trees and fields of greens
Snappin a whole heap’a beans…
Swattin at flyin buzzin things…
Laughin big laughs… and
Tellin small lies…
Wavin one hand as the car goin by
Stirs red dirt into the sultry air
Comin from “down yonder”…and
Headin “up ‘ere”…
Touchin giggle tears
With apron hems
Forward thirty years… and
I still see them… although
I’m the only one left…  

All the bean snappin porch ladies
Have gone the way
Of the natural progression of things… but
I can still hear that old screen door slam
I can still hear the old ladies sing…and
I now sing alone,
The hymn they usta bring
“… it’s anotha day’s journey, and I'm so glad, so glad about it… feels so good to be here”

You
The enigma
Refuse
To leave
Determined to fight
This futile fight
Perhaps your heart can not conceive
That
There are
Other worlds
To dance in

A big *******
Relentless Pac Man
Cancer is…
Usurping your glory
From the inside
Out
Leaving blinders on your lovely eyes
A hollow shell
Of your former self
Unable, even, to realize
That
There are
Other worlds
To dance in

A NEW PARTY awaits…
Better than this...
New adventures
New Loves
New lips to kiss

Fight so hard
To stay
But It’s okay
To go…
Maybe you’re afraid
Or maybe
Just do not know
That
On that
“Great gettin’ up mornin’”
All will be well once again
And though this
Wonderful… horrible… bumpy… smooth… journey
Will have finally come to an end

Keep your dancing shoes on…

This
Groove
Ain’t over

Lay down your mournful woes
Cuz my hopeful spirit knows
That there are
Better worlds…
Sweeter worlds…
Other worlds… Mom

To dance in…

It wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once…
A beauty to make a brothers
Chest ache… And
Breath come short...

Before
Too  many dreams deferred
Deadened a too free spirit
Too many pains
Damaged a too big heart
Too many losses and not enough gains
Too much liver killing corn whiskey
And soul stealing violent man
Made it now easy
For her to enfold herself
In the tragedy of the day

Anguished runny jaundiced eyes
Sunken under fake lashes that
Look too heavy for the job
Her late idea of beautification
Trying to work with what shes got
Only to accentuate the misery
In the much worn brown face where
Cheap foundation
Does a backwards slide
Into tale-telling lines that
Scream louder a narrative
Of brokenness

And she sits… alone
Always
On that stool
In a dark and dingy
Numbing place
Leaned on one elbow
Slightly to the left
Blond wig perched on her head
Like a church lady’s pillbox hat
Only this ain’t no church
And she ain’t no lady
Not no more…

But it wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once...