Best Maybe Tomorrow Poems
Now I'm here, fighting my own demons.
Tell can you see them, with their eyes burning so red.
My hands are weak from breaking all the molds.
I've done everything that I'm told.
I didn't know that you were so afraid of heights.
And I'm so sorry but I think that I'm far to weak
To let you think I can help you down from your pedestal tonight.
I can't help you down tonight.
I can't help but be angry. I just wish that you would save me.
Pushed the numbers down and watched them fade away.
I'm so small from down here; you're my biggest fear;
You grind my flesh and bones and feed it to all the needy kids.
I said tomorrow and today I'll be the same,
But I'll show you now that I know how I can really change.
And you might not like it. You say I'm so divisive,
I just think your indecisive, so I tell you the choices I think you should already know.
And I'm so sorry, but I'm at the brink, I cannot think tonight.
I can't let you down tonight.
Why can't I see that just maybe I'm in way over my head,
Why can't I see that just maybe I'm in way over my head.
I'm far to weak, I cannot think tonight.
Why can't you see that unfortunately your sinking just like lead,
Why can't you see that unfortunately your sinking just like lead.
And I'm so sorry but I don't think I can lift you up tonight,
Yeah your on your own tonight.
sometimes, I am sleepwalking through life
disconnected
stumbling
not fully awake lost and confused
I feel, I am not with the living
I tell myself, "wake up before its too late!"
some roadblocks have me blocked
lost my way somewhere fallen asleep
hit rock bottom
crawled back up then what?
must awaken and find a life of purpose
shake off this sadness
why do I exist? why was I born?
I need to let the light in
talk to a "higher power"
ignite the tree of life sigh!
that's a lot of work
maybe tomorrow . . .
why do I always feel so within
locked in my own sacred place and happy there
maybe meditation will help
a little astral travel
my body feels heavy and dense
I want to be light and unbound and limitless
I hate that I need things and want things
after all, we all leave this earth with nothing
and there is this chatterbox in my head
that never stops telling me what to do
or what I should have done !
I know I have a gift
the gift of writing but I am afraid of it
and love it at the same time, yes I do!
sometimes, it overwhelms me, even makes me sad
sometimes, I embrace it and pour out my soul
but have you ever felt alone although surrounded
by people? I have and its an odd feeling
like looking at yourself from afar
how sad is that ?
sometimes, I linger in the past too long
then I am filled with regret and sadness
and frustration
yet the past has made me the writer I am, sigh!
I know
I have the power deep within me
to find my place in this world before it is too late
maybe, tomorrow . . .
_______________________
November 10, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/"maybe tomorrow'
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9599-03-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
"it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God" Luke 18:25
How rich must I be to give all that I can?
To help ease the suffering of my fellow man.
Those that are homeless & constantly hungry.
To give all that I can , how rich must I be?
Always food on my table, what I call quite well to do.
The woman on the street for her next meal not a clue.
I know I should give as much as I am possibly able.
What I call well to do, always food on MY table.
Maybe tomorrow, I will see if there is anything I can give.
Or maybe someone richer than I will offer help for them to live.
I don’t actually have enough to do much to ease their sorrow.
I will see if there is anything I can give, maybe tomorrow.
With the boss pulling and the workers pushing, with the Square Wheels on the wagon and the round wheels in it:
The boss views the path.
Roll forward faster better.
Maybe tomorrow...
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said I had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said i had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Time is turning
no
hands
on
the
clock
Branches blowing
I
am
not
moving
Winter is passing, new growth is showing
I
am
not
changing.
Maybe Tomorrow.
©Holly P. Moore
March 2013
The Sun had left the horizon
Far behind when I awoke
To face another pointless day
Being destitute and broke
Got up off my friends sofa
Went and made a cup of tea
Had a look through an old paper
Just to find a place for me
Saw a few that might be ok
But I could never pay the rent
Without job and accommodation
I’ll end up living in a tent
Maybe I could have tried harder
In the classroom years ago
I did not think I’d end up here
How the hell was I to know
I even served my country
But that does not mean a thing
Only when I need some shelter
I can some old mates ring
I don’t want to be a burden
And it fills me up with shame
That I have to seek their help
When they are not to blame
I keep looking on the bright side
At least I still have legs to walk
Unlike some other poor soldiers
Who are too shell shocked to talk
Maybe tomorrow I can beat the Sun
And wait patiently to see her rise
To fill my life with her warm embrace
And her ever changing endless skies
There are times when I walk down the block
I ask myself: why don’t I just walk into the woods
To live a little bit more
When I am looking for jobs on the open market
I mine for a nugget of pains in my ass
That’s just me
After getting discriminated against again and again
I want an open world, open heart, mind
In the desert, it’s cold, it’s hot, but that doesn’t hurt
What does is the empty corridors claiming life
Built by us, the word ‘life’, and word ‘nature’
Differentiate a seat of my nervousness
A pill of my reason
Distill the fill of knowledge grown within
To embroider my eyes
I act but really all I want is an open door
In that room there is something or nothing
It doesn’t matter
What means anything is what is not there
Like when I scroll maybe but never like work
When I open a book not like packaging hundreds
Someone needs to do it I guess
I’m sick of counting
I’m healthy for non-wisdom
Strong from lifting papers
Burned from being frozen in fear
Killed for not killing the world
An ass for not go-ness
Autistic for being myself
Not seeming so by masking myself
Torn muscles with ligamental bones
Tell me?
Is there rain on the end of the song
Does the orchestration continue til death
Do the cameras seem to follow you everywhere
As if the wrath to cover yourself skimmers
Is your credit score more important than freedom
Hands tied behind your back out of love
What would happen if retirement was here
Could you sit alone in silence
Or would your eyes float from your sockets
Life was a joke in serious costumes
They say it’s a dance to forget
An arch in the wind screaming for collapse
It doesn’t sing but we don’t either
Maybe you do, I do
But do you need to believe nature dances
Five-elements, that monkeys are us
To live?
Eh, maybe tomorrow
Maybe tomorrow my ink won’t be sticky
A verse will take shape as it flows
I’ll see what I’ve written and won’t be too picky
From now on it’s anything goes
Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about sorrow
Keep ‘funny’ for some other day
My pen will find ideas to sneakily borrow
No copyright shall bar its way
Maybe tomorrow my pen will advise me
By writing two letters: ‘A.I.’
My scruples tell me I could never agree
So, maybe I’ll pass that one by
Maybe tomorrow my pen shall not wander
Alas it shall write not at all
Integrity isn’t a value to squander
A man and his pen must stand tall
Maybe tomorrow I’ll find inspiration
My pen shall be truly enthralled
I’ll write a whole poem, to my consternation
Lest my pen should be quite appalled
Maybe tomorrow my pen will run loose
With notions, some free and some weird
Maybe my pen will shrug off all abuse
And write silly stuff less afeared
Maybe tomorrow I’ll have an idea
That my pen can pick up and run with
About an aardvark that went into IKEA
I’m a poet… so live and let live!
I waitin silence,
the phone refuses to ring,
maybe tomorrow.
In disappointment
Icall the phone company,
ringer is working.
I stare atthe phone,
as if willing it to ring,
clock says 2am.
Tears filling my eyes,
I finally drift to sleep,
maybe tomorrow
* I know Haiku's are supposed to be about nature, but this one just came to me in thisform.
Maybe tomorrow I say as I lift the garage doors
I do not want my neighbors to see this hovel
But one runs over to see if it is a garage sale
Before I can close it.
She points to something she wants.
I give it to her.
Another runs over to ask to borrow my lawnmower.
That frees up a space I could use to sort, out of the sun,
so I tell her, "Keep it as long as you like."
Some teenagers walk by and laugh, pointing.
I want to stick out my tongue, but that would be childish, right?
I do it any way.
They laugh harder.
My husband comes out. "Find any mice yet?"
This really makes me want to clean this mess.
I remember last summer when a bag started moving
And a fountain of mice rose to the top and flowed out
Running in all directions.
I close the garage.
Maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe not.
Don't ! Ask the sun, where we were
hidden, perhaps, in that caffeine moment.
And, pondering on the empty space !
Don't ever say, the visual became clear
as the silver dropped, to the deep floor
like that broken sun,Yes! There are secrets
Between the doors of safety, where you played
with the past, un-knowingly.
It was on the inside of the outside of everyday,
needing ! And wanting to be balanced in scales, of comfort.
While outside the Frog and the Heron, watched on,
as visitors were composted, In a myriad of cackling voices.
The happy shone, it sprinkled the day!
Left me with joy full in my head and heart,
It was, the time, that time, back tracked
the feeling you get in that Sun of short shadows.
Surrounded ! And everything once was !
And stones warm, purpose built, together, talking, and walking back.
It may have been then In 1967, see what memories,
and thought pools we swim in,
between two distant unreachable shores.
Maybe a sandy future palmed and green,
or the rocky crags of endless chores.
Colours seem thin, its stacked and smoked out doors.
A tarry sun accompanies frost, on blued wet feet, tramping moors;
Whiling away the day, she stares into the fire making deals
with ghosts in the flames, I stare at the empty jars,
I care about the red wine still in the glass, and now
time is as fragile as the comb, dripping like a yellow sun ;
But, i know the wham slap of the morning is due !
Like an unwanted letter, or whisper of bad news.
This moment can be split, and spat against a broken future
I need a compass point to be sure of this journey,
a map of shifting clouds, of muddled ideas to gain
a painless transposition along this ragged edged trail.
Tomorrows, tomorrow are numbered, and in short supply.
So upon this bed of chaste dreams you lie,
within this pure love you die,
from this breath of life you bleed,
yet grow again from another seed.
When I go to work, at the start of the day,
I ask of myself, “Will I earn my pay?”
Will I give them more than’s expected of me,
or the absolute minimum they need to see?
No matter how old or how tired I get,
I’m sure if I try there’s more life in me yet.
I’ll meet every day with new vigour and speed,
and try to give more, than the ‘least’ people need.
So what if it leads to an earlier grave,
while wrecking my body my soul I will save.
But hang on a minute…. my advice, I will follow,
though I’m too tired today, so ‘maybe tomorrow’.
Ivor G Davies
Maybe tomorrow
Blessings will flow
From Heaven above
Filled with God's sweet love
He could send the rain
And a new fallen snow
Or the beautiful sunshine
When it is springtime
Maybe tomorrow
There will be another Christmas morn
And we'll remember
The Christ child born
What a sweet time
To have this on my mind
To think this year around
Would be profound
Maybe tomorrow
There'll be another new year
For all to get happy and cheer
Let's make it last
And make a new one
And forget the past
© Copyright 2004 Betty L. Hobbs