Eighty today
Thirty years gone
Time doesn’t balance those numbers
He was a hard man
Built from things he never talked about
But what he taught me holds
I still feel his presence
In the parts of me that don’t break
hard man needs to heal
open soul window reveals
closed fist can not give
nor can it receive
rise wise like smoke embracing
spiritual goals green
To my Cousine
I never forget you, you were a real friend
In my life a diamond, a hard man, and so kind
A soul of life, relative of the life, part of life
Your life and your heart were your kind; style
Your kind is your honesty, caring; and life
Yes, this is your mind in my mind; respected
… your life.
I love you, I am asking God; you are good
I am sorry, I didn’t visit you; I respect you
You are a teacher of my life; a driver soul
Forgive me for not visiting you.
I'm proud of you.
I respect you.
Love you.
Vilmos
A new year has rounded the corner,
with grave news hard on its heels.
A father's friend at kinship's dawn,
a clan's family, by life's sudden dusk.
In so many respects my father's twin,
he could look in a mirror and see Chuck.
To say 'brother' seems not strong enough,
not nearly a sufficing title for the man.
Growing up, he was simply an uncle,
another sarcastic voice in the choir.
Shipmate, soundboard, confidant, kin;
fellow gamer, writer, musical connoisseur.
Buddy, mentor, verbal sparring partner;
hilarious, caring, intelligent, smart-ass.
Always a phone call or a flight away,
each of these things, to each of us or to all.
Thirty years his junior -
yet he asked my advice on,
and I got to be present for,
his first, and sadly only, tattoo.
He got to meet my wife last year,
for which I am beyond thankful.
He sought her counsel for his next tattoo,
which will now be another of hers.
An easy man to like,
with an easy smile and easier laugh,
now a hard man to miss -
but with good stories, of a greater man.
And for those who knew him;
be grateful for having known the dead,
and hold to hope that 'bye' -
is only for now.
I once was a farmer
I worked the land
I reaped the corn
With a scythe in my hand
I ploughed my furrow
I sowed my seed
I grew my crops
My family to feed
One day hot and thirsty
With the sun going down
I went for to drink
At the alehouse in town
As I was a drinking
There at the Inn
Without any warning
The press gang came in
So I was taken
I was taken so fast
And told that my future
Was before the mast
So in my fields
I no longer plough
Instead the wide ocean
I must plough now
From hauling on ropes
My hands are all torn
Sometimes I wish
I had never been born
Our captains a hard man
If one of us fails
He'll have us flogged
With a cat o' nine tails
When I climb the rigging
I oft times will find
I think of the family
That I left behind
One day I'll jump ship
And I'll stay on shore
I'll serve the Kings navy
Never no more
I'll return to my loved ones
I'll go back to the land
Once more I will reap
With my scythe in my hand
I've sailed the wide oceans
Seen Paris and Rome
But nothing compares
With my humble home
I jump, but can not leap:
entreating you is like two parallel streets
that do not meet.
My lips, employ straightforward plain words as hidden clues.
Note: I am not a man of eloquent, noble elevated upper schools.
I keep it simple, yet I am very honest and true and also blue.
This is all that I know how and all that I can do.
My words now stolen from a thesaurus and
a scrabble game match I did fuse.
This just to say, may I get to know
all that is truly you.
Please, view that love postcard sent
and the thumbprint impression that was left.
Allow me to press my thumb and do print on it again.
Then see that mark, a match. This the enduring proof
of a love-struck hard man and a very shy personality that is me.
(Now a Kiss!)
This is written to the rhythm of the Ballad of the Green Beret
By Staff Sergeant Barry Sadler
And
Robin Moore
***
Let us roam
upon the seas
we dont want
to make history
we're fighting for
the land we love
so let us sail
though we may die
We don't care
what you've been told
democrats
have sold their souls
spreading lies
across this land
all for the sake
of their mucked up plans
There ain't no man
that wants to die
but we'll stand
by America's side
make a stand for liberty
though we may die
on foreign seas
There's no way
you'll understand
cause you ain't seen
what we have seen
atrocities
that make a hard man cry
break his heart
but not his soul
So let us sail
let freedom ring
wish us luck
or wish us death
we're fighting for
the one's we love
we'll give our lives
so they'll be free
He thought he was a hard man
Talking behind your back was his plan
And his thought was I’m so tough
But he was first to scream enough
Cheating on his wife made him last
While she didn’t know it was a blast
And in the end there was isolation
For him there was no elation.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Ramrod straight and true blue
With just a gaze he would look right through
He could tell those who were weak
And were hiding something to secrete
He would walk into a room
And would turn the jukebox to his tune
Always sitting with his back to the wall
Drinking his beer slowly was his call
The stories told were of tough men
Who could use their fists in the end
But they could never beat him in a fight
So he would go and do whatever he would like.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Suffering in silence I feel lost and insecure
thinking about all torment I’ve had to endure.
I remember how easy life was in my youth,
I thought days were hard; man wish I knew the truth,
that life gets more harsh when you grow older,
as I carry a heavy bolder on the top of my shoulder.
I’ve seen the radiant rainbows after the storm,
I’ve felt loving arms that have kept me warm.
But lately each minute gets harder to accept,
and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve overslept.
For I am but a woman perpetually lost as of late,
praying to God, more jubilant joy He could create.
Trying to fake the smiles for my sweet daughter,
knowing that trying to be positive I have taught her.
Relating to the sister I lost to severe depression,
being frustrated and angry, stuck in aggression.
So this morn as I write please say a prayer for me---
so that I may find peace and faith...finally be free.
October 22, 2018
I just heard the people say
The master is going away
He gave us talents to invest
One he gave to me, two and five to the rest
The master is a hard man
He reaps and gathers just because he can
Unlike the others I am not so bold
So I dug a hole and buried his gold
Master returned and was glad to see
The other two servants earned him a lot of money
When I gave master his talent of gold
I'll never forget what I was told
That I was a wicked and lazy servant and I knew
What Master was going to do
Send me into the darkness with no relief
In that place of weeping and gnashing of teeth
God gives talents to us all
To some great and others small
He wants us to teach others to learn
That Jesus is the master and will return
Scent of a memory
16/05/2015
The old man ambled by, a scent caught my eye.
A memory long dispatched, elicited and slowly hatched.
My Pops lounge room, musty never seen a broom.
His kind warm smile... takes me back a while.
Hard man as he was, he knew my Nan was boss.
House crowded in smoke, a chewy Mentos for her throat.
Statues in their yard, of white stone so hard.
My mind is transported, sights a smells distorted.
House seems so large, with a twenty car garage.
I can smell the river, and my Nana cooking liver.
It’s like I’m there today, yet in my memory they stay.
Now long gone in time, rest at Rookwood in a shrine.
I once was a farmer
I worked the land
I reaped the corn
With a scythe in my hand
I ploughed my furrow
I sowed my seed
I grew my crops
My family to feed
One day hot and thirsty
With the sun going down
I went for to drink
At the alehouse in town
As I was a drinking
There at the Inn
Without any warning
The press gang came in
So I was taken
I was taken so fast
And told that my future
Was before the mast
So in my fields
I no longer plough
Instead the wide ocean
I must plough now
From hauling on ropes
My hands are all torn
Sometimes I wish
I had never been born
Our captains a hard man
If one of us fails
He'll have us flogged
With a cat o' nine tails
When I climb the rigging
I oft times will find
I think of the family
That I left behind
One day I'll jump ship
And I'll stay on shore
I'll serve the Kings navy
Never no more
I'll return to my loved ones
I'll go back to the land
Once more I will reap
With my scythe in my hand
I've sailed the wide oceans
Seen Paris and Rome
But nothing compares
With my humble home
Denis Briggs
Hard man,
sad man in disguise
trying to cover up
what’s behind the lies
look into his face
see behind the eyes
the pain and the hurt
he’s suffered in his life.
Hard man
tries acting like he don’t care
spends his time creating
an atmosphere of fear
it’s all external it’s all bluff
see what happens
when you push him to much
he will either explode
and simply breakdown
hard man
you ain’t as tough as you sound
treating women
like they ain’t worth a ****
truth is love, you can’t handle it
so you cast it to one side
like you cast away the women
make out that it’s you that’s winning
but I see the truth because I grew
up around the likes of you
your intimidation doesn’t come from strength
your nasty streak represents being weak
and because you can’t define it
in an intellectual norm
you manifest it in a physical storm
but I don’t hate you like others do
in truth I feel sorry for you
because hard man I know your life story.
The words of a hard man sitting alone
Lighting fire beneath the hand, beneath him
It’s not his way, to be accident prone
Can he be caught, by the other one slim
Those that bite. can seem to multiply here
Lighting fire beneath the hand, beneath him
Sojourn he sees the fire, sends off his flair
Taking down the mighty just by his walk
Those that bite, can seem to multiply here
Following that which alarms someone’s talk
Keeping it in, won’t let the fire to burn
Taking down the mighty, just by his walk
He’s a master, burning within an urn
There’s a bite to the fire, none like before
Keeping it in, won’t let the fire to burn
Amazing he wafts to belong to more
The words of a hard man sitting alone
There’s a bite to the fire, none like before
It’s not his way, to be accident prone
Russell Sivey
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