I offered you my hand - you spit in it
I said I’d walk along with you - you tripped me and I fell
I tried to sing the song you wrote - you unplugged the microphone
I told the world how great you are - you told them I’m a liar

I tried to follow on your path - you covered it with broken glass
I sent you every cent I owned - you never cashed the check
I mailed you all my hopes and dreams - it came back postage due
I got the message finally - I gathered up my love and walked away
                   ljm

The constipated words are painfully
Backed up against the need to shout
And hurl invectives to the wind

Drenched in acid that can eat away
The evilness that found a helpful hand
To wrap it as a Christmas gift

And give it to me like some prize
I labored thirty years to win
And finally achieved my goal

Like working at an unplugged keyboard
I pound the keys and nothing types
Across the pages of my anger

The smoking verbs lack oxygen
And smolder while I long for flames
That roar and burn away the hatred

The ink that boils inside my pen
Has melted off the writing nib
And trapped itself in uselessness

The need to rage has reached the point
Of absolute paralysis and I
Am turned into a frozen sculpture

I need to scream and shriek and cry
And kick down walls to watch them crumble
I need to pull the cosmos down a round me

But my hand is numb with loss and grief
My mind a clouded cauldron of pain
My heart's in pieces scattered on the floor

There is no analgesic for my wounds
The only hope is ink on paper
And the inkwell has been poisoned.
                              ljm

I need a new kind of pill to take
I’ve gained twenty pounds in the last seven months
And I have to stop all those ounces I’m gaining

I want to be an ungainly person
No matter what Merriam Webster says
And no matter how gracefully I move
And how elegantly swan-like I appear

I  desperately need to ungain every pound,
So again I ask:  “Is there a pill?“
                                                          ­ljm

Harlan never ever died.  
His words still burn like ******,
Scalding minds that revel in their rut.

He saw behind the curtain long before
The Tin Man or the scarecrow did
And he shouted out the travesties
That everyone refused to see.

His acid pen made pages boil
And much of it splashed over him
Creating scars that in my gentle fingers
I could never heal.

He created mountains where none were
And scaled them to the accolades
He made it known that he deserved.

I rode the wind with him for just a while
Though he offered me forever
It seemed too shiny for my eyes
And I blinked and turned aside
To stand and watch his comet soar.

He one day met a flameproof soul
And lept into the multiverse
With sound and fury as his steed
And her his tether to civility.

I  loved to share his meteor
As it began it’s wild ascent
I thrilled to watch it blaze the years
And see him tear the strictures down.
And even as his comet died
It took a bit of me along
To the place World-beaters go
When it is time to take a rest.
                               LJM

There’s a lot of rigamarole involved
In living in the world today.
The details always nettle me
And slow me on my way.

I do my daily nine-to-five.
It’s such a long commute.
I’m tired when I reach my desk;
That traffic is a brute.

My British colleague peached* on me
For sleeping while at work.
I knew he was a tattle tale
And now he is a ****.

Anfractuousness describes my boss
His mind’s a tangled maze.
My pleas don’t make an inroad
Which has left me in a daze.

I wrote an elegiac tome
And put it on his chair
But he has not forgiven me
He’s such a grumpy bear.

I hope that I still have a job
My friend gave me a tip
He said to kiss the bosses ***
And pray for no pink slip.
                 ljm

Her translucent gown
was spectacular
but her motive
in wearing it
was also translucent
to the nearby women
who watched the men
falling all over themselves
to get next to her.
The women saw right through
translucence.
ljm

One pill causes constipation,
And the other diarrhea-
My gut’s a mushroom shaping cloud
And the countdown has begun.
        ljm

Tuesday morning at Four A.M.
Gramma Smith turns over in bed,
Awake too early once again.
Her replaced hip complains
And a cramp hides behind her knee
And must be stretched and sent away

Fifteen minutes of not finding comfort
Informs her that it’s time to get up.
Legs hanging over the edge of the bed,
She searches the darkness for strength,
Knowing the minute she stands upright
Her back will seize and shriek with pain.

It only lasts a little while
Then settles into a bearable ache
As she shambles to the Loo
Before she can embarrass herself
With leakage she cannot control
The way she could when young.

Dry and on her feet again
She finds the way to her desk,
Blinking in the sudden light
From two lamps that fight each other
To chase away the shadows
That would make it hard to see.

Picking up her favorite pen
She starts to write a verse.
It grows quickly as she settles in
The chair that knows her shape so well,
And ink flows at a satisfying pace
To catch the words that tumble out.

But what she writes is this:

     Where are all the butterflies
     And Humming Birds of my youth.
     Where are the lacy Sweet Peas
     And the taste of lemonade.

     Where has all the music gone
     And groups of words that soar.
     Where are all the Chickadees
     And fleecy clouds at dawn.

She lays her pen aside and sighs.
The glamour that was living, pales
And leaves a morose gray behind.
Her words are serviceable at best,
And all the new ideas are old.
So she gets up and limps away

To where the kitchen still respects her touch,
And french toast is a panacea for her soul.
She searches for the words that would not come
And sips hot cocoa in vain hope
That there will be a reason to go on
And so the gun stays safely in the drawer.
                         ljm

She numbly sits in a ragged sleep shirt
Her life in tatters all around her,
Pieces scattered bent and broken
It’s cold and raining in her soul
And she lost her new umbrella.

Celebration banners flap in tatters
From the New Year party deemed long over.
Confetti pools in puddles at the curb
Staining rainbows in the murky water.
The echo of the midnight chime a memory.

Three hundred unfulfilling days await her
Should she stumble to her crippled feet
And stagger to the place that should be home.
But there will be no cocoa by the hearth fire
Or anything that might engage her mind
Except the fact that there will be no rescue.

Sitting numbly in her ragged sleep shirt
She has no thought of any better place
Available to someone with an injury like hers.
An wound that cripples ingenuity
And renders her unwelcome
In the tangled depths of her own mind.
        ljm

To enjoy the past without the need
Of moving there with trunk and suitcase.
To recall any tragic times gone by
Without the gasping tears of sorrow.
To relive the many precious moments
But not put up a tent and stay there.
To fight the long ago won battles
Once again without the hate and malice.
To revel in the youth and vigor
Of another long gone time and day,
But only stop by for a visit there,
To spend a pleasant while and leave.
To travel back to now and be content.
Remembering the purple velvet petaled pansies,
And the roses in the silver moonlight,
But then go out and water the petunias of today.

ljm

Camilla owes her crown to Diana.
If Diana had been a traditional royal Spouse
She’d have turned a blind eye to Charles’s betrayal
And just enjoyed the perks of Queenhood.
But - alas - she loved that perfidious son-of-a-monarch
And couldn’t abide being only his *******.
Had not she stormed away from that Sovereign Throne
Madam Parker Bowles would have had to remain
The grasping and greedy, outstandingly common
***** that she was and will ever remain.
And Charles could have then joined in the very long line
Filled with unfaithful Kings and their cheated-on queens.
                 LJM

If a flame begins to flicker
It must be tended to.
But you must not ever
Heap on so much wood
That it smothers the flame
And the fire goes totally out.
          ljm

I swim a sea that has no shore or bottom
The North Star hides behind a cloudy sky
The winds increase with every passing moment.
The waves, once flat, are looming very high.

A jellyfish has stung me on the ankle.
My side is knotted in a painful cramp.
My arms are growing numb with endless flailing
And the clockwork of my mind has gotten damp.

Before the rust locks down all hope of thinking
I must tread salty water for a span;
Stop contemplating how I dumbly got here,
Somehow devise a working rescue plan.

Can hope be found amidst the desolation
Of knowing all the errors that I’ve made:
Believing I somehow could walk on water
It didn’t matter how my game was played.

Though I had several copies of the rule book
I never found the time to sit and read,
So I jumped in, expecting native cunning
To lift me to the top, where I would lead

Those lacking my superior perception
To places they had only dreamed about.
I’d be hailed and lauded as a savior-
Instead I only heard the fearful shout

Of those who swim behind me in an ocean
That shows no sign of coming to a beach-
That certainly will pull us down and drown us
As angry yells become a frightened screech.

The sea I swim that has no shore or bottom
Is really just my ego in disguise-
So big it blocked my vision and my hearing
Til only now, at last, I’ve heard the cries

Of hopes too waterlogged to keep on floating
Of soggy dreams that never can come true- more
Of efforts wasted training in a puddle-
Of agonizing clarity of view.

At last I’ve come to recognize this ocean.
I know what’s on the nonexistent shore.
It’s swim or sink so I keep stroking forward
Although there is no reason any more.

And though my strength is quickly disappearing,
There’s really nothing that I haven’t tried.
So I just flounder onward in my struggle
To somehow make it to the other side.

Knowing there is no one there to greet me-
Knowing there is nothing there at all-
Knowing that no miracle will save me-
No one will ever see the tears that fall

In vain attempt to expiate my folly;
To pay atonement for the things I’ve lost.
To somehow make my life not end up wasted-
To gain some value from it’s painful cost.

So left arm, right arm, kick, kick, kick.
I gain an inch and just as often lose one
The sea I swim that has no shore or bottom
Will take me with the rising of the sun.
ljm

My rope is stretched to a single thread
How did all the woven strands dissolve
The wind is howling in the attic and
My guardian angel is on vacation.

The furies do a Samba in my cortex
And my feet can only do a do-si-do.
The doorbell plays Westminster Chimes
But only ghosts are on the porch.

That Other Place sneaks up to grab me
I’m never sure if I’ll come back
I speak to air and reach for nothing
As I realize that I am back.
I never plan to be there, instead of here
But the minute concentration lags
I’m living in another place and life
If only for ten seconds - an eternity.

I struggle to remember where I was
And what I said and what I did and
Who was there, and what we spoke of
But it vanishes to make way for here.

It leaves me puzzled and afraid.
It happens to nobody else
And I’m alone in stormy skies
Without a light to guide me.  

Am I crazy?  Probably.
What is this place I visit?
I think it’s called insanity
And soon I fear I’ll live there.
                ljm

I remember
the me I was from
traces
I trip over daily
Brief flashes
of the insight
and ability to
share
that made me
someone of value.

Moments of vocal
clarity
that put together
two and two
and it always
came out
four.

Flashes of satyric
humor
that nailed its
subject
to the floor
and walked on it.

A momentarily
brimming mind
with all the
pieces
in their places.

But then
the fog rolls
in again
banishing
the clarity
blanketing the
ardor
making it
impossible
to be the one
I used to be.

Perhaps one
day
I won’t recall-
I’ll learn
to love the
fogginess
And find
the peace
that’s currently
eluding me.
            ljm

The toilet roll is narrowed by at least an inch
The kleenex box is shorter too.
The tuna can is lighter by an ounce
And applesauce has followed suit.

They take some costly spices out-
Call it improved and new.
The fancy wrapper doesn’t hide
That this is only one big *****.

They want to keep the prices low
At least that’s what they say
It’s all to pad their bottom line
And we’re the ones to pay.

A stylist says that less is more-
That may be true with art
But when it comes to merchandise
It stabs you in the heart.

Nothing lasts past warranty-
It’s obsolete next week
There is no point repairing it
The bottom will still leak.

The Doctor has no time for you
His patient list is endless
Insurance pays him less and less
That’s why for tests he sends us.

We all complain and grumble on
But yet we pay their prices
We need to get a rumble on
And cut their scams in slices.

We need to knock upon their door
And bang upon their table
We need to stomp upon their floor
As hard as we are able.

Then maybe can size once again
Will fit the recipe
And we can live with things that fit
No matter what the fee.
ljm

In the stony desert heat
The muse has blisters on her feet.
The blazing wind whips up her hair
Til she can’t see the crevice there
And falls headfirst into oblivion.
Perfect name for a sandy gully
She can not crawl out of.

Who will save the injured muse-
Give her water, bind her wound
Lead her back to safer ground
Give her parchment and her quill?
No one in this neighborhood
Of empty window, bolted doors.
I fear the muse is on her own.
ljm

Mystic lake, nestled in the kind of scenery
Landscape painters drive many miles to find.
Water. so clear you can see
Almost to creation and the rocks
A hundred feet below.
Cold but never frozen,
It’s water is the color of a Summer sky
Because it is so pure.

Recreation Paradise straddling two states-
Boating, hiking, swimming…
And on one side there’s gambling
Where you can exercise your fortune
With the spinning of a set of wheels
Or the rolling of the dice.
Such popularity has brought
A shadow to the pristine shoreline.

Development and overuse
Are sullying the waters
Once a vivid cerulean,
But now a dimmer version of the color
With a mistiness as depths increase.
Is it too late to stop the damage
Can people yet be made to care
And turn around the gradual fading
Of one if God’s most premier jewels
ljm

Why is Omni suddenly unable to post???
He got this message:

Forbidden (403)
CSRF vrification failed.  Request aborted.

What is this all about and why did it happen?
Hey, Algorithm guys...how about an answer?
Lets get one of our primo contributors up and running again.

Cobras of the desert
Copperheads and Rattle Snakes
Never seen in coiled up form.
Multi-jointed, multi-colored,
Listen to their clickety
Clack clack rattle
As they slither quickly
Across the scorching desert
In segments one mile long.

Their tracks are almost hidden
Beneath the scrubby sagebrush
Baking in the sun beside Route 66
And arcing off across the sand
In every which direction.

They scar the empty wasteland
In a spider web design
That goes on until forever,
And meets itself at
Precise angles
In the burning emptiness.

Serpents of the God of Commerce,
Following the tracks of others.
Kaleidoscope of moving patterns,
Always changing, still the same.

Cobras of the desert
Never rearing up to strike,
Fleeing as if somehow startled ,
Never turning back, they fly
Off to unknown times and places
Leaving flaming desert sands behind.
ljm

You thought that I was talking *** -
Funny that never crossed my mind.
I was sorting scattered comments,
Trying to see the road ahead.

I thought you would be seeking money.
Previous scams have made me cautious
And sudden friendship rings a bell
That warns me to be careful.

I said perhaps I saw what’s coming
And that the answer would be no.
I didn’t expect your vitriol
And angry doorways slamming shut.

It’s probably all just as well.
We don’t speak the same language
And always will misunderstand,
So let us go our separate ways.
ljm

Gloom as thick as Karo syrup drips from a sunless morning.
Despairing winds blow hopeless dust in swirls
That stick to it and function as a dimmer.

The sound of heartbreak echos in the empty air,
As other lives roll by on leaden tires and disappear
Into the darkness of my outer limits,
Making shadows that would glisten if there was a sun.

Someone took a potshot at the sky and it went out,
And shows no sign of ever coming back.

Music is what’s called for - only that can lift a mood-
But it lies shattered on the parquet floor;
It’s only sounds a whimper and a moan.

Comfort food calls 911 to order Mac ’N Cheese
While the stash of year-old beer is suddenly appealing.

The only way to save this day is **** it
And pray for resurrection on the  morrow
When wings of hope will fly
And bring the tiny olive branches
Of a new beginning.
                  ljm

Lured by the understated enticements
Of the fog that curls around my efforts,
I’m wondering if that could be the answer
To the questions that I’ve never ever asked.

There doesn’t always seem to be a floor
At the very bottom of the staircase,
So I’m wondering what I will find
When I step off of the bottom step.
            ljm

While walking in the woods one day
A Grizzly Bear came upon a grisly scene.
A Cougar had killed a Lumberjack
And was munching on his carcass.
The bear decided to join in, but soon
Opined the meat was far too gristly
So he deemed it grist for the Cougar
And he slowly walked away.
ljm

A contrail scratches a long pink scar across the dawning sky,
Alarming the wispy clouds that stretch themselves into nothingness,
Oozing rose madder from their bottom edges.
The faint sulphur yellow glow behind the ragged horizon
Lurks with the Son’s intent to loom at almost any moment.

The air is clear, and distant fires have not smudged it gray.
It is too early for the birds to be abroad,
But there are little bunnies on the roadway,
Welcoming an autumn morning, unbothered by my passing.
They look warm in their fur coats and little padded feet.

There is no wind, surprising in this desert place of river breezes
But my hands are tucked up in the sleeves of my sweat suit
Against the chill that paints pink roses on my cheeks
As I take my morning walk in Laughlin,
Enjoying my ownership of the quiet air.

My walk is timed to get me home before the sun
Can crash it’s way into the sky
To scare away the bunnies while it wakes up the birds
And forces me to shield my eyes
Against the glare of another busy morning.
         ljm

The darkness comes in gentle waves
Like a mournful sea at ebb tide.
It comes in wisps like smokey sighs
Wafting from a deserted fire.

The darkness seeps into the spirit
Like a leaking, unattended faucet.
It arrives in plain brown wrapping
Tied with twisted, knotted string.

The darkness sings a plaintive tune
That echos in the vastness.
It weaves a heavy coverlet
That blankets any hope of light.

The darkness didn’t have to be
Why ever did I let it in
ljm

I don’t think anyone will miss me
The one who should cry the most
Will feel relieved of burdensome love
That came from genetics and little else.

The other one will follow soon
Unable to survive the grief
And find a way to carry one
Without the recipes for life.

Who will remember New Years day
To send a Birthday greeting skyward
Or will it be overlooked again
Lost in last nights partying.

Who will touch the things I loved
And wonder who once owned them,
Purchased at a reduced rate
From One-800 merchants

Who will trim the weeds that grow
Across the stone I helped design.
The power mowers of Valhalla
Will caress me once a week.

My words will be stacked in a closet
Or perhaps into a bin.
No one will ever see or read them
Only God will know their lines.

My candle’s flame will flicker once
And with the sundown disappear.
ljm

Wasted paper - murdered trees
Must such beauty die for memos
Write a line and toss the page -
One more branch is sacrificed
To fill the dumps with litter.
Copy things no one will read;
The forest is diminished
And all that we have left to breathe
Is the death sigh of the Amazon
ljm

Word challenge using the words Rattletrap
                     fleabag, tatterdemalion, jalopy, squalid,
                     dilapidated, down at the heel. Vintage words
        
It was kind of dilapidated
But it still ran fine
It wasn’t a total rattletrap
No matter what people said.

I would like to have a new car
But I’m down at the heels right now
having lost my job last month.
I live in an aged fleabag flat
In a squalid neighborhood
Until I get back on my feet.

Everyone calls me a tatterdemalion
But I pay my own way.
And when my old jalopy died
A piece of me died too.

I  loved that little ‘0-two Jetta;
I’d get in and it would  go
The best art of it all was this-
It always brought me home again.

I couldn’t face the breaker’s yard
And see her all torn down for parts.
I donated her to charity
To help pay for someone’s brand new heart.
ljm

They were kissing on the beach
He wanted a whole lot more
She said no and pushed him off
Triggering the evil in his soul

He kicked her head
Til she didn’t move
Then pounded it with
A cinderblock
Until she was obviously dead

He dragged her down
To the ocean’s shore
And heaved her in
Like a sack of trash
Then calmly walked
Himself back home

I guess that is what
A guy’s supposed to do
When a girl refuses
His advances.

What kind of world
Are we living in
ljm

A low-flying squadron of Mourning Doves
Swooped over the neighbor’s ten-foot wall
And strafed me with their grace and beauty
                                            ljm

"Transporting a Dream" by Old Poet MK, brought back to mind an episode when I was in my 20’s, and working in an insurance office in San Diego with a night job as a waitress at a Beatnik Coffee House.  I was in love with a wandering folk singer who had left to perform at a club in Oklahoma City and I missed him terribly.
He called late one Friday night and said why not come there and drive back to California with him.  At first I told myself all the reasons it would be impossible. Then my heart told me I had to find a way to do it.  I called my supervisor and told a fib about my mom being sick and I had to fly to Washington State for a few days.
I emptied my piggy bank and the tip jar from my coffeehouse night job, but I didn't have enough for the ticket. I did have a series E savings bond tucked away, but nowhere to cash it in on a Friday night. This was long before we had computers and cell phones, so I had only my land line to help me.  
I called Greyhound and got their schedule and all the stops they made along the way to Oklahoma City.
As it happened they had a 20 minute rest stop in Mesa, Arizona at 10:15 AM. which was about as far as my gathered money would buy a ticket for. Good enough!  I grabbed some clothes and my E-Bond and raced to the bus depot. I gave them all my money, much of it in coins, and bought a ticket for Mesa. Soon the bus was loaded and I settled in as we rolled on through the night.  Too excited to sleep, I wrote several poems along the way.  When we got to Mesa for the rest stop the next morning I leaped off the bus and flew into a nearby bank (Talk about miracles - it was just across the street from the depot ) I pleaded with them to cash my Savings Bond so I could continue on. The handsome teller listened to my story and then called the bank manager over to hear it as well. That was the day I learned that very pretty girls can do things ordinary folk might never manage.  Without knowing me or really checking out my ID, the bank manager and handsome teller actually cashed my savings bond for me.
Had they not done that I would have been stranded alone and penniless in a strange city.  Only the confidence of youth and beauty could lead someone into a situation like that.
I raced back to the bus as it was loading again and bought my way on to Oklahoma City. I wrote more verse as I looked out the bus window on the way. Some of it very good.
There was tragedy though. I filled one little notebook with  poems and was well into a second one when it came time to change busses.  I somehow left the first notebook on the bus as I got off and didn’t realize it until well away on the second one. I was heartbroken. All I could do was write a sad poem about lost poetry - which I did.
When I arrived in Oklahoma City I was met with love, music and wonderful moments.
The drive back to LA. was exciting and romantic as we stopped to admire the scenery and take photos of each other.
What an exciting escapade that was. The folksinger was a lovely period in my life, filled with other adventures and Whippet dogs, but alas, not permanent. The relationship didn’t endure past two years, but the love of Folk music and Whippets did.

Twenty five years later a similar adventure on a bigger scale befell me, but that’s a story for another time.
LJM

Stop berating
Start appreciating

Stop denigrating
Start Congratulating

Stop befuddling
Do more cuddling
ljm

A victim of Lethologica,
I find myself ransacking my brain
For common everyday words I need.

Do I seem a fool or dementia patient?
I am neither of those - not yet anyway.
But my bumbling efforts to be succinct
Fall by the wayside as I stare into space,
Hoping that the word I desperately need
Is somehow magically floating there,
And stammering red faced when it is not.

The only thing that keeps me sane
Is my vast storehouse of synonyms
That I dig out to fill in for the better word
My frantic ransack did not uncover.
ljm

On the day I come unglued
And finally slip away
I hope the sky is freshly blue
Without a wisp of gray.

At the moment when my concert ends
And the final note is sung
I  hope I am with caring friends
And no black crepe’s been hung.

I want to simply disappear
To mingle with the wind.
I hope I sense when time is near
To bring things to an end

I’d hate to leave in gloom and rain
And hate it more in snow.
I do not want to cause more pain
Because It’s stormy when I go.
                                        ljm

It’s never gonna be my turn
I stand in line and pay my fare
But the bus is full when I get there
And someone else is in my seat.
ljm

My how the staid and tradition-bound
House of Windsor has changed
When an avowed harlot is to be crowned Queen Consort
To rule beside a ****** co-conspirator on the Royal Throne.
Princess Diana must be spinning in her grave.
Not to mention Princess Margaret.
                              ljm

I find your pecuniary longings
To be so overcoming that
you have become porcine in
your search for it. Wealth is not
some truffle that can be rooted
out of the ground or society.
You might do well to ruminate
on the profundity of this statement.
                 ljm

I looked up “demagogue” in my Websters
And there a previous President was
In a smiling photo with fists in the air
Worried the wind would mess up his hair.
I didn’t bother to study the words -
The picture was worth several thousand.
ljm

I’ve spent half of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop
And the rest of my life picking it right back up again.
                       ljm

Begging the muse to smile on me
  I pray into a broken mirror
  That reflects the things
  I never want to have to see.

  Hoping for enlightenment
  I kneel before an altar
  Made of wood pulp and bleach
  Where nothing is substantial.

  Crying for a mentor-guide
  To open doors I cannot reach
  The echo of my wrenching pleas
  Only serves to deafen me.

  Choking with the need to hold,
  If only for a blissful moment,
  The chimera of a rhyming prose
  That warms so many hearts but mine.

  The mirror will not lie for me.
  That altar is for someone else.
  The turmoil merely lashes me
  As I spin around in hapless circles

  Grasping for a tiny touch
  Of wonder hidden in the ink.
  Though it isn’t asking much
  I cannot find the magic link.

  It’s not for me the poet’s pen,
  The vision that can shape a world.
  There is a lacking deep within
  Requires my banner stay unfurled.

  Herky jerky hum drum dumb
  The cadence of a new defeat
  Tells me that the time has come
  To urge my lines into retreat.
                 ljm

Small pages, rimmed with foreign sounding orders
Splash on ink to make them monumental.
Block the wind that wafts them into yesterday
Where all the pills can’t heal a ****
That will not hold the stitches.

Little notebooks filled with sentences
Dug at great pain from a bruised and bloodied brain
Determined to lock away any sheen and glitter
On the every day and Sunday-Go-To-Meetin’ words
That put emotion on a platter instead of in a locked vault.
ljm

I tried to think of someone I could venerate.
I listed all the names my mind could generate.

I thought about war heroes from the Middle East.
They should be listed near the very top at least.

I thought about the doctors and the Nurses.
They deserve our praise in many verses.

The First Responders all deserve applause
Their service never ever takes a pause.

Though there are many people I could laud,
The only one I venerate is God.
ljm

Dancing on the tightrope of a breakdown
I wonder just how good my balance is,
I teeter on the wire one careful footstep at a time.
I don’t look down; the solid concrete waits for me below
I can’t look left or right for fear I’ll lean and tip.
I focus on the other side but it’s not clearly seen-
Is it my eyes or has a fog rolled in to trick me-
To leave me stranded and precarious.
I’m developing a cramp and one toe has gone numb
But still I slide the other foot along
And grip with every particle of strength I own.
I have to make it all the way across
There is no net below to save me.
But the other platform seems so far away
And my umbrella feels as though it’s made of lead.
Why is there no cheering from the crowd-
I guess they’re fascinated by the clowns down there
And never ever bothered to look up.
ljm

Gazing deep into the well
Where hope was thrown
With abandon so unthinking,
I see no small reflection
That could tell me if
The sun will shine again.

I see the place where parity
Was smashed against the wall
And opportunity ran down the shaft
And disappeared in darkness.

I have a penny that I brought
But I never got to toss it.
All the wishes it embraced
Are left there in my pocket.
          ljm.