Every day she comes to visit her,
lifts the spoon to her thin lips.
Quietly she sleeps, silently she weeps.
Life arrested in its waning grip.
Every day she comes with hope
that something in her changes.
Silently she weeps, quietly she sleeps
The memories time rearranges.
Every day she comes and wonders,
will she wake today and speak?
Quietly she sleeps, silently she weeps
An imprisoned mind in body weak.
Every day she comes and touches
the woman like no other.
Silently she weeps, quietly she sleeps.
Maternal daughter, loving mother.
Virgin snow sparkles in the darkest hour
as stardust dances with celestial power.
Silently it rains upon mother earth
giving witness to such an idyllic birth.
A fawn and doe now break the glaze
like tiny spoons upon crème brulees.
Below Polaris they prance and snort,
for they seem to know the time is short.
For such a night is a rare event,
as blue light above is heaven sent.
Wondrous luminescent tranquility
trumps any earthly poet’s ability.
Now the first rays pierce the frigid night
and Orion’s bow soon fades to light.
White carpet dulls now without the luster
of a nocturnal painter, the starlight duster.
James Nichols 12/29/12
In all my years I've never seen
a face so weathered, yet seldom mean.
A semblance of a younger man
of whom I was the biggest fan.
A tired soul in eyes so hollow,
where he went this kid would follow.
Now he's resting more and moving less.
Is this what's left for God to bless?
Disease and age have beat him down,
yet no one ever sees him frown.
Mortal thoughts creep in as days go by.
What's it really like when we die?
But he won't dwell on that, with time so fleeting,
and his mind still sharp, despite the beating.
No he won't complain, why even bother?
My hero is this wonderful father.
Crimson mist in the Dallas sky,
a frantic wife's mad dash.
The world watched us as we cried
for hope gone in a flash.
Brilliant poet with timeless verse
and enduring message of peace.
A murderous fan fulfilled his curse.
Does lunacy ever cease?
Perfect day in the city
until the towers fell.
Religious zealots who had no pity.
Their resting place is hell.
So look at history if you can
and learn from such hindsight.
As long as evil has a plan
we must not quit the fight.
Bingo halls and liquor stores,
what's happened to this land?
They call it a reservation,
a word you cannot stand.
The deep gut ache that you feel
as native blood boils deep inside
comes from where spirits roam free
with a fiercely eternal pride.
Inspired by the untimely deaths of young people I knew. RIP
In a dream, tonight would be my last
and I demanded to talk to God.
Of all the things I've gotten past,
to go now seemed so odd.
"You've taken all my friends you see
and now you want me, too?
Unlike one who pretends to be
I've always honored you."
Those sinners who outlive me still,
all I have to ask is how?
It mad me question His very will.
Why take a good man now?
But God just sat and let me rave
on and on about my worth
and why I didn't need a grave,
but rather eternity here on earth.
Pride let my voice be rather loud.
He never said a word.
I told of deeds that made me proud
and good things that I'd heard.
And when I tired He simply said,
"No doubt your life's been good.
But many younger are now dead
and their legacy simply would
be the song that is never sung,
no children call them dad.
for they came to me so very young
and left the world confused and sad.
Yet now your time has come as well
and selfish thoughts are all I hear?
Your life was full and I can tell
it's really death you fear.
Just remember that you have no choice,
for you all will one day die.
Be strong and with a humble voice
tell loved ones they can cry."
And in that moment I knew a peace,
and I felt a tear well up inside.
That most feared was now the least
as my selfish motives died.
I am ten and crossing home.
Two players missed it, as it rolls on and on.
An error if you're scoring the play,
but I call it a home run on my first day.
I am ten, and I have found my first love
in a tattered ball, and a hand-me-down glove.
I am twenty, and I am throwing hard.
Beading sweat, please stay in the yard!
Each pitch thrown with a hope and a prayer.
Scholarship athletes can't be only fair.
Medical school looms larger than the Show.
A privilege for few, but I don't want to go.
I am thirty and I cannot put it down.
Sundays the old men come around.
Love of the game a common bond.
The bat is no longer a magic wand.
Reminiscing about those bygone days.
I can no longer beat out those close plays.
I am forty, and I watch with delight.
My own boys throwing with all their might.
A lump in my throat, a moist eye.
I contentedly look on and sigh.
I've passed down the love to the next generation,
and I wouldn't trade that for a standing ovation.
Another year turns over, people look to see
just what the coming year will mean for you and me.
Tomorrow's worries aren't here, and yesterday's are passed.
Daylight's your new blessing, but it's really burning fast.
The seasons change so quickly, now that we're growing old.
"Seize the day my son", seems I was always told.
You cannot live life over, and you cannot take it back,
so make a first impression, be a leader of the pack.
We hurry every day, never noticing the minutes
flying by so quickly, time has no sense of limits.
Just talking all the while, we have such tales to tell.
If only every now and then we grab a rose to smell.
Take time for those you love, and those who love you, too.
For tomorrow some of them might not be here for you.
Teach your children honesty and show them some good deeds.
Because love will never flourish if we never plant the seeds.
Scheming together years ago, before the weekly executions,
dreaming of days we'd lift the fog of ignorance from the masses
and paradigms of stagnation shifted with cerebral solutions.
To no avail our heady course in theory only passes.
We knew the day, the hour, the minute how texts would be rewritten.
The generation of our spawn in classes they would read it.
History so enthralling, with learning would they be smitten.
Instead the propaganda beast so ravenous and we must feed it.
The old men while away their time with tales of a foiled coupe,
and students smile and avert their stare, it's better to be a number.
The One he loathes such minions who wish to think or do,
so all the day of arduous labor leads to fitful slumber.
Yes you and I, my loyal friend, matyrs in the making,
outwitting cowards that march us to the death of liberty.
But threats and greed lead to your word finally forsaken.
In brutal death at least my soul will wonder this world free.
Twenty brand new angels
arrived just yesterday.
Frightened and confused
they only wished to stay
with parents now left empty,
and shattered beyond belief.
Their babies’ precious little lives
stolen by a spineless thief
with evil in his heart,
and killing on his mind.
Dear God where are you now?
It’s getting hard to find
a reason for the carnage,
and the acts of the insane.
Can we still find eternal love
surrounded by such pain?
Now twenty brand new angels
who only yesterday did die,
and with them, too, the innocence.
Why, dear God, why?
for the Sandy Hook children. RIP.