Younger people have no clue
That many things they like to do
Will, one day, prove to be too much,
By slipping from an aging clutch.
The rah-rah-rah and go-go-go
Of constant moving starts to slow.
The parties lasting through the night
No longer whet your appetite.
The dinners that begin at 8,
With drinks you’d once appreciate,
Give way to early-bird-type meals
With much less food, which now appeals.
The traveling to cool locales
To ski or hike with groups of pals
May be the trip you once would choose,
But now, you’d pick a river cruise.
You never think when you are young
That you would ever be among
The people who have reached the age
Where life is at a different stage.
here we are this morning, in Australia
God plays no favourites, we see
the same magnetism pervades the air here
realms, domains, locales change
ephemeral phenomena is but smoke
the unchanging noumena eternal
Why can't I write a poem
'bout every shade of color
kaleidoscope sunsets and brilliant blooms
Why's my imagery so much duller ...
Why can't I write a poem
'bout steamy love affairs
where breathless paramours explore
locales no eagle dares ...
Why can't I write a poem
in metric symmetry
Well, I know why ~ If I did that
I'd lose my identity
during our yesteryears
we made no appointment
to catch up our close friends
their doors were always open
friendly warm smiles greeted us
whenever we walked into their home
not quite so today
when plans are made
mostly at outside locales
the conversations guarded
idle banter, wit but less warmth
leaving heart feeling hollow inside
now there’s no such thing
as a 3am trusty friend
life as we knew it
has collapsed
16-January-2023
'My thoughts are with you'
What does that mean
Can we send our mind's notions
to locales we've not been
Yet I feel we can
if by this is what's meant
The thoughts I send with you
~ for aye given, never lent
Long after the joys are gone
The bitter sweet memories remain
Of our unforgettable companions
And the exotic, exciting locales
The few precious moments of real joy
We savored in freedom and abandon
Away from an unfriendly world
That had vowed to keep us deprived
As though the good things were not
For us and our kind: its laws onesided
Its earth apportioned, laurels conferred
On those handpicked to repress and rule
Over unfortunates seized and shocked
Hearts atremble, their lips are locked
And hearts branded with fear and pain.
We're thankful at last we're free again
To bring back the moments of joys past
The guru knows people,
and through that knowing
understands none can be generalized.
All is never a word you can use when describing them.
Each is more accurate.
Sure we may have similar ideas, but even people of the same sect
or religion or family will each have their own outlook and ways of doing
The guru gives each leeway
Sends all skin and hair color love
Does not generalize locales or customs.
Understanding we are each unique
Identical twins are not the same.
Not exactly.
Pete and repeat have diverse ideas.
They are each individual with their own thinking mind.
The guru understands nature.
Appreciates the seasons, the elements, the cycles.
The guru tries to change no one.
Inspires, uplifts, and sends love.
To each.
That is what the guru does.
Fishing rods and reels, and bicycle wheels,
gentle thousand yard stare,
daisies in the dunes, measured afternoons
all without a damn care.
Bake shop coffee and wet shore like toffee,
Hampton Star in my lap,
on the beach sipping, salty wind nipping
at thoughts of that day’s nap.
Sand like gold powder, piping clam chowder,
oyster cracker crumbs,
shy deer in the brush, blue waves fall and crush,
stoops alive with red mums.
Old high school pals, now of different locales,
drink plastic cups of beer.
Baseball and whiskey, nights thick and misty,
for our time once a year.
Inky skies full of stars, when we leave the bars,
silver on the black sea.
I look at the moon, an ancient white rune,
who makes memories with me.
Fort Worth to El Paso, a long stretch of tracks
Deputies securing Wells Fargo money sacks,
With reins in hand, stagecoach en route
Jessie’s gang kicks dust, chasing the loot.
Oil lamps hanging on the tavern’s post
Saloons filled with men who drink the most.
Split rails and troughs in make shift corrals
Mask men flee, hiding in many locales.
Posse of six saddle up to chase
Jessie’s gang leading the pace
Wanted posters hung on banks and stables
A round of whiskey lies on saloon tables.
Colt 45’s rest on the long wooden bar
Ranchers arriving soon from Omaha.
Rustler’s rope up a head of cattle
Rifle on the side, rope loops on the saddle.
Looters grab the bags, each one rides a mustang
Two gunslingers jailed, one will hang
Conductor steps out, train whistle blows
“all aboard”, wheels turn, white smoke blows,
Across the plains and over the notch
Riders travel with flasks of scotch.
Straight beaten paths and dusty trails
Someday those will be wild western tales.
One by one they left the nest
Daughters and sons
Their time at home done
Let the old man rest
They all started their lives
In brand-new locales
Called him once a week
Vowed to stay pals
But the calls became fewer
They had jobs and kids too
No time to reminisce
Their lives were exciting and new
He had his interests, they figured
His own circle of friends
So they forgot all about him
Blatantly -- didn't even pretend
To care that he missed them so much
That all he asked for was to just keep in touch
That he was pining away, becoming depressed
A forgotten man, no longer blessed...
So late in the evening of his final birthday
Sitting by the phone, to hope and to pray
He put a gun to his temple, for no one had called
This forgotten man, for whom was felt nothing at all
Southern Through and Through
Dr. Jim Martin
I am satisfied in my Southern ways,
I am really quite content.
I think I’ll stay and settle here
That is really my intent.
Do not try and persuade me to change my mind,
Saying I have surely lost my way.
I am really not interested in other locales
I have decided to on Southern soil stay.
My roots run deep in this Southern land
Where we talk in our own proud style.
Listening to others try to mimic our speech
Brings to me much more than a smile.
There is much that we are proud of in these parts
That is often not well understood.
Folks from elsewhere think it odd
That we care so for “neighborhood.”
To not be in a constant rush;
To use words like “git” and “ya’ll”
Does not mean that we’re less smart than you
Nor did we into “stupid” fall.
On caparisoned, filleted camels do they
Over the great, soft, tawny sands
Ride;
Unfurled flags and tribal standards flown amidst them,
In the very midst of them-
Of they, who astride great tan camels,
Seem rather scandent and saltant.
These are the irregular, well-armed cavalry of the
"Men In Ambush," for such is the literal translation of their
Nation's cognomen;
And on the sands of the undulant, granular, eminent
Near-Judean wilderness do they ride.
Photographing these from atop the vespertine-hued
Summit of a delivery truck from the nearby
Eminent, circumvallatory, hilly
And fortressed city;
From the very roof of an antiquated bread truck
(Though 'twas then very new by the standards of those bygone days)
Whose radiator is soon to vaporously explode
Amid the oppressive, anhydrous desert heat,
Photographs an American, hatted in the whitest
Of Panama hats, who is a correspondent reporting of wars.
The Arab cavalry ride for locales
Damascene, in order to pursue one's kingly wish
To renew the gardens Cordovan and long-vanished.
octave of forty words
Forty years - man and wife
long time friends celebrate life
on holiday, pure pleasure bound
four couples, eight countries found.
City ruins, castles, churches, canals,
lots of leisure, legendary locales,
river bends and mountain peaks,
whirlwind journey, two short weeks.
written 24 January 2016
I grew this big thing to impress the gals
I knew that it would get back to my pals,
saw the jealousy coming
but I just keep on humming...
finding Narwhal love in many locales.
For "Impress me with a NARWHAL poem" by SKAT A
CHRISTMAS IS…
A time for family,
Festivities and joy.
Anticipation for
Each girl and boy.
A time to relax,
Catch up on rest.
Eat much that will put
Suit sizes to the test.
Music will sound
In many locales.
Jubilation from choirs
And professional chorales.
Some will celebrate
The Savior’s birth.
And remember the reason
For His coming to earth.
For some however,
Sadness is near.
There’s not much reason
For holiday cheer.
Away from home,
In a distant land,
Not exactly how
He had earlier planned.
The war rages on
Day after day.
Soon it will end,
He does constantly pray.
His loved ones at home
Try to persevere,
Praying that they will soon hear
News about which to cheer.
Maybe next year,
They regularly pray
He will not have to be
So far away.
As we enjoy all
That the season brings
Let us not forget why
This freedom rings.
As we lay our heads down
For a restful night,
Many are still engaged
In the enemy’s fight.
Christmas for them
May not be as grand
As what we enjoy
In this blessed land.
So I ask you my friend
As I close this verse,
Do you pray for their safety?
And thankfulness rehearse?
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