I don't belong,
In this "modern age"
Mom said,"Mandy,
You need a face book page"
I had one, once that I abandoned
I must've forgotten why
It didn't take me long,
To remember, it's all a lie
I prefer the woods,
You can't "filter" the view of an evergreen
No downloads in nature,
Just life, real and clean
The sound of squirrels at play,
The smell of rotten leaves
Watching the breaking of day,
No cleavage shown
Not a ***** in site,
Unless the deer are in rut
Then you just might
No "look at me's"
No "See what I've got"
Social media, I believe,
Causes brain rot
If I'm not in the woods,
My nose is in a book
Give me pretty words,
Then I'll take a second look
I already "friended",
Pen and page
I've nary a need,
For a "fake book" page
I like the dirt,
Things that grow
When it's winter,
I like the snow
I say,"Mom, I have an account,
On a poetry site,
Where people read poems
And all of us write.
Our words and dreams,
Thats what we share
And instead of our possessions or skin,
Its our stories, we bare."
Yea, I think it's safe to say
I don't care for this modern age,
And I've nary a single reason
For "fake book" page

I shake with every cell
Oxygen does not easily flow
Dancing in indiscretion
Inhaling every woe

Cancerous to nose
Infected by smokey lips
Adorned in selfish prose
Doctored with defying quips

Acted out in Fable
Characterized in yellow stone
A sure thing to bite
Pieces lost in clothes  


Hiding in a wake
Eyes of goopy pus
A manmade offense
The anti-verb of us

I rode the crested waves
that graced the coptic sea
And crashed into the shores
of North Africa

The water was as warm
The blood hotter still
No one went on living
unless they had the will

You never made a friend
nor aquaintence by the hill
Life was sweet and short
Too easy to be killed

Your best friend was a bottle
A cigarette would do
And in emergencies
a colt 45 was too

We smuggled guns and roses
across the white hot sands and dunes
We bartered in broken languages
while whistling a softer tune

With a third eye looking back
where bullets would fall as rain
On our way to Gibraltar
One dip salute , rev the engine of the plane

There is no water to quench you
To wash away the sins
The waves of guilt run over you
They bring the sharks with fins

~

her coach, like Cinderella’s,
was what brought her to his side.
but what she'd failed to see,
is that a good man may not be,
quite exciting as the bad boys way back home,
so she packs up all her shoes n’make up,
headed home where she can wake up.
now its coach that takes her,
and all he sees are fading lights;
as that red-eye in his mirror is roaring,
down the runway then is soaring,
off into a stormy night.

he used to think that
fairy tales were promised,
that all a woman really wanted,
was a knight in armor shining.
but now he knows that love can't grow,
when all its seeds are tumble weeds,
that roll on down the open road;
just looking for a good time man,
a handsome cowboy and another rodeo.

now all he’s left with is,
trying to make some sense of this;
all her lying to him,
why she left him crying for,
all the good he thought she’d brought.
but sometimes it takes
some time in silence
to see what damage has been done,
to see the cold side of a woman,
that all her prettiness and fun,
is a terr’ble substitute for love.  

he used to think that
fairy tales were promised,
that all a woman really wanted,
was a knight in armor shining.
but now he knows that love can't grow,
when all its seeds are tumble weeds,
that roll on down the open road;
just looking for a good time man,
a handsome cowboy and another rodeo.

this i promise, know it well;
good-time girls can’t cast a spell,
that lasts a lifetime, when a fellow
needs a love line, nor can they
ever heave a lifeline, when
all the chips are down. 'cause,
when someone else is drowning,
and everybody's yelling ’bout
a fire the house is burning down.
that’s when she does
what she’s best at...
running out of town.
no, a good man needs a woman,
who will always be around.  

~

*post script.

please don’t ask where this one came from... he does love country music and it may just be one too many catastrophes he’s had to watch; it’s certainly not about his own woman, for she has been his privilege to love and care for now just shy of forty years.  no, maybe it's so many lives exploding, love imploding... sometimes it feels like so few know what love really looks like anymore!