guy-workman
American
An internationally recorded songwriter, guitarist and flutist, Guy spent seven years in Nashville where he honed his songwriting skills. He has had four songs in the Billboard charts. He is currently recording a new CD, writing children’s poems and short stories.
We were born old,
toothless and bald?
With wrinkly knees
On which we would crawl.
Our hands and face
spotted with age.
But our parents don’t worry
It’s only a phase.
For soon there after
Year after year,
The wrinkles and spots
Start to disappear.
At twenty our hair
is still streaked with grey.
But the wrinkles get less
and less everyday.
By forty we’re fit
Ever on the go.
Our eyes clear and bright,
our skin all aglow.
At sixty we’re invincible,
Healthy and strong
With knowledge and wisdom
we can do no wrong.
By ninety we’re once again
Toothless and bald,
Unsteady on our feet
we prefer to crawl.
An ever repeating cycle
Whose course we can chart.
For it comes out the same
From either end we start.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 11:49 PM UTC
Somewhere amidst
the black, cold night
a presence lurks
that steals all light.
It’s a monster,
it’s bad luck,
a harbinger of doom.
Another nightmare
destined….
for the dark room.
The dark room abides
near our darkest fears,
nestled beside
the River of Tears.
It’s a sad,
lonely,
desolate place.
But it’s always there,
just in case.
Incase
from a dream,
a nightmare should bloom,
We can chase it away…..
into the dark room.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 11:38 PM UTC
The house sits neglected atop an overgrown hill.
Waiting, forever quiet and still.
Her windows reflect the blood red sun.
Evening says a long goodbye, to no one.
Night wraps the house with coal-black arms,
To once again hide her fading charms.
Cut deep by her eaves the wind wails and moans,
racing round and round this dark house of bones.
Kids crawled on her floors, climbed her stairs,
She held books and beds, tables and chairs.
There were pets and parties, laughter and tears.
Her walls rang with love for so many years.
But weeds and trash now fill her lawn.
Her flowers and shrubs are all dead and gone.
Standing in stark silence, alone and ignored,
Time attacks her every board.
Once grand and bright atop her hill, she slowly falls apart.
Devoid of soul, dark and cold,
sits the house with a broken heart.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 11:30 PM UTC
What if...
sunshine poured down like rain,
filling the gutters, ditches and drains?
Hand in hand, wandering the streets,
we splash pools of sunshine with our bare feet.
Jumping and splashing, what a glorious time,
walking together knee deep in sunshine.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 11:28 PM UTC
Most people don’t know it,
Yet it’s true all the same.
Humpty Dumpty had a brother.
And Harold was his name.
Now Harold was fit and tan,
thin as a rail.
While poor Humpty was short,
portly and pale.
Humpty had no ambition
so he did not a thing.
While Harold was a Squire
and personal trainer to the King.
Harold became a lord,
and walked the castle halls.
While Humpty sat alone each day
atop the castle walls.
Lord Harold’s responsibility
was the good King’s health and weight.
But alas I guess we all know
poor Humpty Dumpty’s fate.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 11:10 PM UTC
Born of emotion
their destiny I fear,
is to well into life
then disappear.
Joy, sadness,
anger, pain,
they make no distinctions,
no judgments, no blame.
One of many
they’re too hard to stop.
Hearts break or mend
on a single drop.
They can cheer,
they can cleanse,
show love,
fuel elation,
Or help drown a soul
in total desolation.
They’re always with us,
no matter our years.
We never grow too old
to shed a few tears.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 10:38 PM UTC
In the still of morning you hear his approach
by the rustling of the leaves.
Like magic you feel him touch your skin
with the kiss of a gentle breeze.
He’s painfully shy, for though you look
you never see his face.
He’s a rover, a rambler, a gypsy spirit
ever moving place to place.
But in rare moments, growing quite bold,
he grabs you and starts to spin.
You lose yourself to youthful glee
and go dancing with the wind.
You dip, you whirl, spin round and round,
you get so dizzy you fall to the ground.
Still he’s teasing, twirling here and there.
Tugging your shirt and tasseling your hair.
I hope dear friend that once in your life
you will feel the joy within.
That comes from simply letting go
and dancing with the wind.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 8:42 PM UTC
I stand at the very edge of tomorrow
looking back at yesterday.
Holding that moment clutched in my hand,
when night first turns to day.
I can see the sun, the moon, the stars
like jackstones at my feet.
While by the door, time just stands
tapping out a beat.
The universe yawns and stretches
across the vast, dark sea.
Knowing this long, lazy dawn
will last an eternity.
My eyes are drawn to the shuffling sound
of time as he moves on.
Always forward. Always forward.
Always, all alone.
Through the doorway lies the future.
Endless miles of narrow halls.
With windows of opportunity
lining every wall.
It’s here and now that really counts.
For nothing else is real.
The past is dead and ground to dust
under times never ceasing wheel.
The future is a waking dream
we act out every day.
Built on mist and held in place
by nothing more than faith.
Slowly, slowly I open my hand
to the purple, pink, predawn.
Knowing that everything before this moment
is forever gone.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
Know What?
I don’t want to
never, ever, ever
grow old.
Not after what I’ve seen.
We went to visit
Grandma and Grandpa
in a house that’s
purple and green.
They must be
A million years old,
or at least maybe forty-five.
Mom and Dad
said they looked really good.
I’m amazed they’re
still alive.
They didn’t have a bit of candy.
Just crackers
dipped in honey.
Their clothes didn’t fit
and the whole house
smelled kind of funny.
They were
thin as a rail,
white as a ghost,
blind as a bat
and deaf as a post.
They said
it was amazing
how I haven’t changed.
Then all day called me
by my brothers’ name.
They say
it happens to every one.
And it’s not so bad
I’m told.
But still....
I don’t want to
never, ever, ever
grow old.
© 2000 Guy Workman
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 2:39 PM UTC
What if...
Cows and pigs could fly?
Riding the breezes way up high?
Like four-legged gas bags
grazing the clouds.
Mooing and oinking
as they float all around.
But one thing I’m sure
I would not like to see.
Is one perched on a limb,
right above me.
© 2000 Guy Workman
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 2:16 PM UTC