The clock is ticking

Time is fleeting before my eyes

It almost feels like
all these moments
turned into memories
in a blink of an eye

Oh, dear Time

Please, please, please
slow down a little bit
freeze if you would

Please, please, please
I'm started to lose grips
of everyone; everything

There's a little
boy that hides in
the dark corners of
my soul.
He doesn't want to
be hurt anymore.
I spent eight years
with Beth.
For the most part,
it was hell and
constant pain.
She made nightmares
look good.
I heard the
little boy cry
late into the
silky night,
while snails got
smashed on the streets
of Ventura.

When I drank, which was often,
the little boy seemed
at peace for awhile,
while swans were
murdered in Venice,
and I tasted the ashes
of Neruda.
Years flew by
like seagulls;
up
down
and darting.
The little boy
continued to
hide in the
dark corners of my soul.

He wanted to
come out and be loved.
He was thirsty for it,
but there wasn't
any around.
It was dry, like the
deserts in hell.
It's too late for
sorries, here comes
the plow.

He began to see
the pattern of life.
There are monsters
that walk in the light.
Vulnerability equals pain.
The little boy got mean.
And now he carries
a knife.

The deepest intake
The shallowest chest cavity
Held nothing for me
Deuteronomy

When you're faced with a dilemma
On the direction you should turn
Dig deep you'll find it in ya
From past lessons you have learned

Be the purveyor of good news
Give the people a reason to sing
Hold on tight and then let loose
...Do the right thing

When the crowd is heading down
While stringing you along
You don't dare echo the sound
On all that can go wrong

No matter the pressure stand your ground
Be it shallow, be it deep
Even if you're the only one around
...Do the right thing

When you are battered to and fro
One side says yes the other no
You might find it hard to cope
Never once give up hope

Let nothing stand in your way
If you must, go against the grain
Anymore need I explain
...Do the right thing

I know I'm not alone
Knowing readers like good-feely poems;
Not poems on politics,
But on love and gnomes,
That offer happiness to you at home.
I'll forgo writing verses on death,
My lovely images will ****** your breath.
I'll ink lines about an old flame's door,
The hesitation to knock once more,
To see if she, like me, is free,
And re-ignite the flickering light
That rained down from our starry night.

People want to feel good more,
So I won't write about Civil War;
Or Armageddon on the horizon;
Millions dead with a final solution;
A leader devoid of absolution
For lies without resolutions:
For a sin that should not be.

I'll write about aging well,
Finding water in a dried out well,
Overcoming not feeling well,
Lifting a grandson with Well, well, well!

These be poems that one reads well.

I heard there's a shot today.