Just like that —
Bridges fall hard
Like a pile of sticks
In your backyard
Against deceit,
Be on your guard
And of betrayal, be wary
A bond that lasted
Twenty years
One day, wake up —
Disappears
A shroud of darkness,
Anger and tears
Like a coal mine eating a canary
So don’t look down —
When you’re crossin’ that mighty Styx
And your friends line up for the gauntlet
As they try to get in their licks
A friend in need?
Who needs that?
Inconvenience
Is like old hat
And we won’t sit where
Poor dupes have set
On the idiot stools of loyalty
Yeah, selfishness
Is a better bet
Bet the coins on your eyes
What you can get
From the shore of memory,
The sun will set
And each of us will feel like royalty
So don’t look down
Tryin’ to make a safe passage
Into later life
But holdin’ onto old relationships
Is like standin’ on a sharpened knife
No don’t look down —
You’re crossin’ that River Styx
Where your friends line up for the gauntlet
Tryin’ to get in last licks
September, our ninth month each year,
becomes the bridge tween summertime
and the fall spree soon heading near.
We welcome its grand days now here
as summer blessings, though not prime,
blend in to welcome autumn cheer.
A covered bridge once spanned across
this deep, dividing stream
and anxious reverence filled the thoughts
of all to trek its way.
Wrought iron bolts held taught and fast
this might of chiseled beam
as shingled roof and clapboard wall
held brevity at bay.
It stood the days when horses drew
their harvests to the mill
that lay beyond the river’s weir,
along the channel stride.
Its wooden slats were burnished clean
by spindled wagon wheels
and planks would whimper hallowed moans
as wind and stream collide.
Its stalwart strength held stoic
as a darker day encroached
and bore this Nation’s burden when
Her war was in its prime.
And some still hear the cannon wheels
engrave as they approached,
and Brogans pounding cadence as
formations march in time.
As time will do its passing drew
the strength from timbered bone,
and soon it came to call upon
this faithful trodden friend.
Two hundred years of lumbered toil
gave way to man-made stone
so, generations still to come
could bridge divides again.
Visions of a saint near
that bridge has a name.
The suicide frontier
the method's all the same.
a jump into crashing rocks
head first into oblivion.
Leave behind shoes and socks,
and aspire to be heavenly.
Waves wash away red splashes
before the blood can stain,
a church will have its masses
while many choose the rain.
A return to first opened eyes
Purgatory denounces peace to grave
to the suffering in which we wish to die,
back here all the grief & the shame.
In shadows deep where our weary hearts were cast,
Hatred blooms, for the garden’s trust is past.
Stubborn weeds now choke what love had sown,
Their roots entwined, shroud what once was grown.
Words once so tender shatter into fragments.
Bridge collapses; strength too frail, laments.
Apologies fall silent, they're lost in the air,
Echoes dissolve and fall into a hollow stare.
We clutch at shards of once-mirrored memories,
Deceiving eyes with lame, fractured histories.
The warmth we knew lies hidden away out of sight.
In shallow graves that mock the hope of daylight.
A circuitry of broken wiry veins remains,
Forgotten paths grow wild into tangled chains.
New bridges rise yet they're shattered torn,
Their severed, frayed wires, make healing forlorn.
We wander through this labyrinths of pain,
The ghostly whispers, lost, echo and remain.
Warn us that healing comes in slowly with the tide,
That certain wounds we'll never turn or hide.
Words of sorrow fall like bridges into the abyss.
No balm is enough for what collapsed, went amiss.
The past laying fallow, without consent or grace,
Still haunts us with the mask of love’s face.
They said, “You’ll never change the stream,
Your plans are just a restless dream.”
But stones don’t fear the water’s voice -
they stand, they hold, they make the choice
to shape the flow, not drift away.
Around me, currents laughed and spun,
the gifted boats sailed in the sun.
Yet in the deep, I learned to stay,
to read the tides, to find the way
where rushing waves could not betray.
The years went on, the river turned,
and bridges stood where stones had learned.
Those who had mocked now crossed with care,
forgetting they had once stood there
to say, “It’s wrong - it can’t be done.”
I do not need their late applause.
The river bends to deeper laws.
And those who stand when all else moves
will find the strength the stream approves,
and greet the rising sun.
Across the chasm, wide and vast
A silent bridge connects the past.
Its stones are words, its mortar thought
A path to truths we’ve often sought.
To cross it takes no strength or speed
But faith in what the soul does need.
A bridge unseen, yet always there
A link between despair and care.
Crossing the London Bridge by trike,
I observed a head upon a pike.
So, I politely doffed my cap
and returned home to take my nap.
The October moon winked in the
cover of midnight darkness
and I saw love in her eyes —love
she’s been doing her best to hide all this while —
not minding the stroke of midnight
when hearts pound loudest among those
who keep vigil for love.
Through fog, on the London Bridge, I saw an image so forlorn -
upon a pike, a traitor's head. The span it would adorn.
While I understand the appeal of a well-weathered head,
wouldn't Christmas lights have been a better choice instead?
Over by the bridge watch them link
Swans congregating before flight
Curtains of dusk drape at the brink
Over by the bridge
The ebon sky soon out of sight
as the red sun begins to sink
the chill of autumn fills the night
Gliding force, unabashed blinks
huddled they aim for evening light
as they swim together in sync
over by the bridge
Bridge Street Bridge
Scores Sounds Lift,
Voices .... Rise!
Bridge Street Bridge
Scores Sounds Lifts
Elkhart's .... Might!
after “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, by Robert Frost
This bridge meant something in some war,
some yarn of man and God and law:
but I think more of her and me:
what were those others fighting for?
There’s so much here to feel and see,
and yet it’s rubbernecker-free!
I love to watch the fishes jump:
they sense the serendipity!
Lads do the love, dames do the dump.
I can’t imagine now the crump
of primitive artillery,
but I remember Forrest Gump!
The theater, ideally,
was dark and deep: and, as for me,
I’ll linger in the reverie …
I’ll linger in the reverie.
Any pet owner knows…
Our furry friends are as much
a part of the family as anyone.
Missing my boys.
My Dear Monte,
Life is simply not the same
without you by my side
Although it was your time to go
oh how I’ve cried and cried
I know you’re whole and happy there
and that relieves my pain
Until I see your empty bed
and then I cry again
You’re with your brother Hudson too
and that is good to know
Oh, how I’ll miss you both, my boys
till it’s my time to go
And on the day, when I arrive
while running o’er the ridge
We all will meet and never part
and cross that Rainbow Bridge
I’ve never been kissed on the dance floor.
With him, I feel light-hearted,
but apart, I’m utterly devastated.
I’m a dreamer, he’s laid-back,
and without a genuine connection, our love feels
like scenes from a disconnected game—
where hate destroys, yet love seeks to heal.
But with each passing day, my love for him dwindles.
We are apart because this kind of love cannot thrive.
We never dance; we never kiss on the dance floor.
Our rhythms never sync; he lacks that spark,
and so, a kiss on the dance floor has eluded me.
Feelings shift when loneliness takes their place.
Love wavers,
when a marriage crumbles,
as I wish and hope our love was strong enough
to bridge the gap.
Unlike wildflowers plucked without care,
my love was stunted,
never given the chance to blossom.
Still, I hold a profound respect for him.
A part of me must make a choice,
and so I choose happiness; I choose solitude
over the confusion of pity masquerading as love.
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