Dwell not, O soul, on yesterday,
on sorrows past and gone -
the sketch you drew so long ago,
today may be redrawn.
Dwell not upon tomorrow's wars,
nor borrow from their pain -
that energy you need today
let not your worries drain.
Dwell not, O heart, on failures past
though each one left its scar -
rich lessons you have learned have forged
the person you now are.
Dwell not upon your victories,
for those shall also pass -
let not your pride construct a shrine
to trophies made of glass.
Dwell not, O soul, on others' gain
nor envy those with much -
contentment, paired with gratitude,
brings peace no wealth can touch.
Dwell not on anyone's downfall
as though it lifted up
your own estate; we're siblings all
and drink from the same cup.
So what is left, O soul - where does
the prudent soul pay heed?
Become less of a taker
always give to those in need.
Which seeds are we to plant
upon this plot of ground we plow?
Sow seeds of love, be brave, and dwell
in the eternal now.
Written 6 Dec 2020
I'm afraid that your child needs multiple surgeries, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson
(Holding back tears): Doctor, what are the odds that our Jessica will survive?
Well, if we can schedule everything back-to-back-to-back, then excellent
Oh, doctor! Do whatever you can to save our precious daughter's life!...
****************
You are Jessica's only surviving daughter, Randi?
Yes sir, I am. Just don't tell me that my mother deserves better from me.
But she specifically requested a solid gold casket and a choice plot of ground
I really don't care what she requested. I'm not made of gold, you know...
Don't you want to respect your mother's life, Randi? Those were her last wishes
Jessica's dead. What difference does it make now? Just cremate her...
A fecund and well-tended plot of ground,
the sonnet is a stage, a sacred place
where thought and things aesthetic interlace,
where all that charms the senses may be found.
Delights of sight, propinquity and sound
can crowd together in a tiny space,
a parcel primed with sapience and grace,
where nothing strays beyond the bower's bounds.
The sonnet is an orchard, tightly trimmed,
whose regularity belies its treasure.
The pleasure we derive from supple-limbed
and fragrant trees is matched in equal measure
by fruits so beautiful and weighty, they
enchant us with their erudite display.
I stand on this plot of ground
thinking about my life
the good I have done the bad I have done
the love I have created the hate that I stirred
My autobiography is filled with happy moments
painful moments
The world I see before me is not the same
neither am I
God seems so close at times yet at times so far away
An anxious mind creates restless thoughts sleepless nights
Time is now...the past is but a memory
hazy and biased good or bad replayed with a new script
some scenes better left on the cutting floor
This world I helped create...helped to create me
regrets have become my drinking companion
I stand on this plot of ground breathing in
and breathing out the life I have lived
I have seen sadness and joy both can be misguided
when I was a child I looked to the future
now that I am old I replay the past
I have walked on this tightrope swaying side to side
balancing these frisky emotions never looking down
having faith the safety net has always been there
Frank (Black) Blacharczyk
When the moon is blocked by gray clouds,
A lone woman visits the graves,
She wears a black dress like a shroud.
She speaks, but her words are not loud,
She whispers and calls them by name,
When the moon is blocked by gray clouds.
The deceased has grown to a crowd,
She speaks tenderly to the dead,
She wears a black dress like a shroud.
With the handgun she kept her vows,
As her victims entered her net,
When the moon is blocked by gray clouds,
They came strutting and oh, so proud,
And many more will find her web,
She wears a black dress like a shroud.
Her name is Danielle of the Marsh,
She hides her real name, Black Widow,
When the moon is blocked by gray clouds,
She wears a black dress like a shroud.
©December 18, 2016 / Jerry Pat Bolton
Quite far away under a plot of ground
Some old, decaying bones can there be found--
That’s all that’s left except the memories.
The days are lonely now since I don’t hear
From this departed one so close and dear,
And yet somehow I know that now he sees
His son, now trying very hard to say
Some words about his dad who’s passed away
By using now this way of eulogies:
The poems of him and his life that I write.
If I could have it closer, then I might
Go to the plot where now his body lies
And think about the day when soon we’ll be
United once again eternally
When we meet face to face up in the skies.
Yet herein lies the hope and truth I’ve found:
He really does not lie there in the ground,
And when I think of that I realize
That Dad now waits for me at heaven’s gate,
And miles of ground and earth don’t separate.
No plot of ground to serve a bed
Against the dark you lay your head
For expedition much abused
Contemptable in your afteruse
Defiled by Adam's selfishness
Your face unrecognizable
A mute remains of ravishment
To world unreconcilable
A dying bird with broken wings
Your fate lies with unloved things
Too weak to cry out heavenward
You close your eyes from pain!
(Be exalted Lord, who designed this bard
To refrain from all things sane)
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