I think about those days of innocence
back . . . when I was young
I played for hours in mom's garden
with my pets
among her pretty flowers
and bird songs drifting
the world had not touched me yet
I had no scars on my soul
no pain in my heart
no nightmares haunted my dreams
I heard no whispers calling me
I loved my dolls
teddy bears and books
and my room at the top of the stairs
in our old home
the wood floors where I would slide
and the claw foot tub
I knew nothing of cruelty
war was not even a word yet
I was loved
and I loved too . . .
and that was enough
is that why those years are so cherished
so beautifully recalled
but innocence is gone
for it is a fleeting
thing . . .
Joy! Joy! of all the honors I have earned
In a lifetime of trysts, mazes, and twists
None have I so much relished, indeed,
As topping one of Poetry Soup’s lists!
I only wish they would send a certificate
I feel like my soul would be duly kissed,
My head swells with pride, such renown,
If I wrote music, I’d feel like Franz Lizst!
I know some are eat up with jealousy --
Somewhere down there in the foggy mist,
But there is always room at the top
And someday, surely, you’ll make a list.
I hope you have figured out, by now, I jest.
I would write poetry if I never saw my name
Writing, my tongue firmly planted in cheek,
I would be a fop to write poetry for fame!
written December 23, 2021
[inspired by a recent poem
by a Poetry Soup poet!]
#33 on the Month's Best Poems List
January, 2022
so the penny drops
and the buck finally stops
biden flips ~ trump flops
(For Inauguration Day)
By
David Kavanagh
>Why I don’t I play tennis.
Tennis, want to know why don’t I play?
Because I cannot hit those balls back.
Those that fly fast down my way.
I mean a tiny sphere like that.
Travelling faster than my car at that!
How can I expect to hit, a tennis ball as fast as that?
When we played tennis long ago!
On the vicar’s lawn, it was just so.
The service was so nice and slow.
Then when the ball was hit back.
That’s when the game started at that.
Back and forth those balls went.
Until at last one went out, or in the net.
Game would last quite a while.
We would talk, even smile.
And the best bit at the end of play.
Was vicar’s wife, coming out with a tray.
Of cold orange squash, you know.
And that’s how tennis ought to go.
It was on my local radio this morning. The question why people were dropping out from playing tennis. Well I could tell them. There is no room at the top with all those speed servers. Its no longer a game just a I can hit the ball at breakneck speed. I am off soon fund raising for Help for Heroes so the day is all yours. Have a nice one. (The mad Author)
Where nothing ever happens
Except for when I want it to,
Then all hell breaks loose,
Or all heaven,
Depending upon my frame of thought,
Or yours,
Twisting things into straight visions,
Walking divided lines so very carefully,
Brain's eye a little out of focus,
Dreams for tomorrow in a foggy haze,
Wishes dropped dead in an illusion,
Trespassing on borrowed property,
Still room at the top of nothing,
Dragging me laughing to nowhere.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn A.R.R.
As I stand on step number one,
I feel the warmth from the setting sun.
Another foot forward, step number two.
I pause a while to enjoy the view.
I turn my head for one last time,
As I start on up, my tedious climb.
I hold the wall, there are no railings,
Another of the tower's failings.
Does it lean to the left, or the right?
I wouldn't risk it in the dead of night!
The room at the top is a bit damp,
But anything's good if you're a tramp.
The wall is warm as it touches my arm.
All is peaceful, and I feel so calm.
Because of a piece of bread, and a sip of wine,
For the moment at least all this is mine.
2001
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