Lonesome is as lonesome does.
Sadness is what sadness was.
It's what all the suffering know ~
nothing changes in the world of woe ~
though some might swear, it isn't so.
The Ballad of H2O (International Version)
He reached his boiling point at one hundred degrees.
When he dropped to zero, he would freeze.
Everything he did, he did just like he oughter,
(in Centigrade) - that's water!
The Ballad of H2O (US Version)
Arriving at two-twelve Fahrenheit,
his roiling bubbles gave steaming flight,
but descending South to thirty-two,
he froze in his tracks. What could he do?
on the lines of 'I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry
Song by Drifting Cowboys and Hank Williams'
---------------------------------------------------
I'm So Lonesome, I Could Cry
Sitting by the window
On a creaky wooden chair
Light fine rain falling since daybreak
I can’t go out and play
I am not a child, I can’t play
Damp grains in the bird feeder
Untouched water in bird bath
Not a bird in sight to watch
It is drizzling since yesterday
Lots of puddles by the tree
I can’t go stamping, I am not a child
Rain wet flowers sway
Fresh like kids after shower
Grass hold onto water drops
Tight like one on first date
I can’t go to collect those shiny
Raindrops lined up on wire, I can’t play
I sit there by the window
I can watch rain all day
No one to disturb me here
No one to ask me out or in
My soul keeps me company, I am good
I’m so lonesome sometimes, I cry
Our childhood home in old Monroe
Is now home to someone I do not know
I knocked once but was left standing
Alone and waiting on the patio
Like when we waited for Dad many years ago
My family sold it when they up and moved away
Under some spell or hopeful for a change
Sometimes people need to go their own way
I saw your childhood home
After a handsome young man had died
Now looks dilapidated
And I don't dare go inside
I stopped next to the gravel driveway
Only to look
But I couldn't take a step or get too close
For I was frozen with fear
That perhaps Id see your injured ghost
Childhood is childhood and cannot last long
Sometimes Love flows in and away too quickly
For us to grab it or hold on
A house is a shell it's people that make it a home
And when they are gone it feels strange and lonesome
I cannot go back home ever again
For those places no longer exist
Except In my head
I thought this noxious pain would abandon my agonized heart after a while
I thought if I could write better it would ease on me
Maybe my tacks were wrong,
I couldn't find my way to exist, still a character of a juvenile
They mocked my will, my reasons, my need to smile
No matter how old, never will be mature enough
I came the last, cried a bit much, been called the spoiled infant
They refused to see the unpleasant substance runs in my veins
That I was a bit too lonesome, compared to the rest.
I tried to hold onto the little ones, they arrived long after me;
Even my eager attempts were not solid enough for them to see.
Now I found my company, he took my solitude, turned "I" to "we"
All I needed is his camaraderie, only his devotion, love, caring
Still feels too great to ask a little sympathy,
From the ones who stood before me
Never have the right to feel, just a naive employee.
Shadowed in mist, she rises
Mountains alive with ancient tales,
Cloaked in faded stories, history
Whispered on the nights in breathless tales
Pastel moments, promises, echoed
Across the horizon, silent dreams
Forgetful mind,
On the lonesome road,
Yet the road I love.
Yearning for what once was
Take me to a time of love that once was
A simpler time just me and you
Sitting under the sun
Daisies a few
Mildew a plenty
Rivers flowing free without any envy
Do you yearn for what once was?
A time and a place just because
Love the way I love
It seems too much
Well for you anyways
Beaten down and haggard
The soul is tired
So much love to give
Disregarded just because
You blame me for my love
The love given to you
So carefree and willing
To my lonesome grave I go
Up the long and winding road
With a sorrow for my load
A mother's breath, could be her last
Hoping to make it there fast
February 24, 2024, PST, SPC
“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” —Maya Angelou
Lonesomeness dreads the twinkling afore sleep falls,
Soft and soundless, blessing with the hues of night,
Rustling peace through the soul after darkness calls.
Wonders shimmering, more lovely than starlight,
In dreams, where hope’s music plays its gentle notes,
Stirring warm feelings where love’s wishes excite.
Soundless moments, revealing wise anecdotes,
In life’s songs, blushing in hues of kindest grace,
Offerings of true devotion held by quotes.
Beyond life’s forlorn prayers, silence will chase,
Trembling faith, always aware and always there,
With belief in love’s gifts, no doubt can erase.
Despite that lonesome ache, life holds no despair,
Because we know that our God is everywhere!
I
tread a
lonesome path,
as heartache beats
in haunting echoes,
searching for solitude.
As the world retreats from view,
sorrows increase when you're unseen.
I've become a ghost on distant shores.
Moonlight my last trusted confidant,
stars a mentor on silent nights.
I hear wayward winds whisper,
unspoken soothing rhythms,
but vibes feel barren,
bare and broken.
A sole soul,
lost in
time.
two cell phones ran into each other on some street
friends I think world has changed though
and stood side by side known yet unknown
an awkward greeting then sliding into silence
like an old western gunfight suddenly
a duet of ring tones that has taken music hostage
they reached for their souls lost in a maze
to see who had the quickest draw
and to their relief a touching moment
quickly typing with insane joy
their thoughts playing the keys like a piano
in the end they acknowledged each other with a nod
with a good-bye slipped it back into their holsters
patting it like a baby's bottom waiting for the burp
they walked for a moment but like a pack of cigarettes
they reached for their cell phones lighting and inhaling
staring at the screen to see if their popularity was still intact
as they were staring downwards the cell phone they were tweeting
walked by without a peep just a nod
Death Of The Old Cowboy On The Lonesome Range
Ravenous wolf pack, ripping and tearing
red-stain bloody meat from his dead horse flank
much better the dead horse than me he thought
as he looked up at hot sun glaring.
Dreaming now, his beautiful gal holding tight
aching head laid in her luxurious lap
mused what sorry cowboy sight this is
an old cowboy sho gonna die tonight.
Then waking again, he was fine alright
that June morn was sure so fine to behold
again that pretty gal rushed to him
saying, dear cowboy ain't you such good sight.
Sleep, a gentler sleep all he would need.
Asleep he fell and then to death he bleeds.
Robert J. Lindley, sonnet
April 2nd, 1971
Note- This has been written after my watching
the cowboy save the pretty girl, but then he died
from fighting of Apache braves for two days.
His guns empty, his heart and dreams took over
to ease him beyond the deep purple veil.
LONESOME TRAILS
Trails of a long lonesome journey,
Still has memoirs, leaving imprints behind.
Ensuing the winding path,
through avalanche and gorge far and wide,
a lone traveller seeking solace,
betwixt the expanse of the world.
The wind muttered secrets,
carrying echoes of buried tales,
each step leaving an ineffaceable mark,
embossed upon the tapestry of time.
Through thick forests of ambiguity,
and deserts of unanswered questions,
In search of meaning and understanding,
I walked.
Imprints left behind tell stories of grit and brawn,
Of battles fought and victories won,
Of losses grieved and lessons learned.
But as I look back on the path,
Traced by the soles of my weary feet,
I realize it was never about the destination,
But the journey that transformed my soul.
The imprints may fade with time,
But the memories will linger on,
For each step taken on that long lonesome road,
Shaped the person I am.
I hold close the paths I’ve journeyed,
With their peaks and valleys intertwined,
For they are more than mere imprints left,
Oh, they paint the essence of a life refined.
©Chitra Arun
In the Tale of Marah Abbadon
Whose bitter spirit is long gone,
Her mother was a jaded Jezebel,
Who cast out Marah wishing her in Hell.
In life she wandered bare terrane
Plagued by pestilence and murrain.
She dwelt in caves and holes in the ground,
The warmest homes she ever found.
Nothing ever relieved her woes,
Through desert heat and mountain snows.
Her lonesome life was fraught with danger.
Wherever she went she was a stranger,
Searching endlessly for a home,
But finding none, thus doomed to roam.
After dolorosa years of strife
She sought a place to end her life.
Through Jerusalem’s walls she made her way
Stumbling into Siloam’s pool that day.
A Spirit stirred the waters there.
Her heart felt lighter than the air.
It would not work; the angel told the wench
Her homesick thirst it could not quench.
A prophetic, white-robed passerby
Offered living water that shall not dry,
Blessing Marah with a place to dwell,
Forever closed to mama Jezebel.
5/2/2023
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