torrential down pour
life giving water for plants
sad at the window

Yeah, so what I was sitting
on the wall.
It was mine, and a great
wall it was.
Peasants walked by
and envied my crevasse,
they mistook it for a
belt, I had to constantly
correct them.
I got in such a squabble
with one of the villagers,
I leaned forward to give
him the what for, and
I'll be ****** if I didn't
tumble off and smash into
thousands of pieces.
Because I'm so important,
the Kings men and beasts were
quickly dispatched, and
the incompetent fools could
not fix me.
So I lie here, yolk and shell
everywhere, yet I continue to
think and reason, no heaven,
no hell.  This wretched life
continues, I watch the ****
walk through me, I hear their
uneducated banter and it
infuriates me...
I've read all the great philosophers,
yet; nothing has prepared me for this.
And what the hell does, "pride goeth
before the fall." mean anyway.

Sometimes the laughter between  
us could heal a *****.
He would say, “Dear God, my nose is falling  
off, but these two ******* are funny.”
Jesus would say with a grin and a snicker,
“Go in peace my son, you are healed.”

I loved laughing with you Mare.
I felt like a kid that just watched
a five year old accidentally hit his dad in the
nuts with a plastic bat.

When you would get really hysterical,
you‘d make these strange snorting sounds
with your nose.  Our eyes watered like faucets.
I’m crying too now Mare—but not  
from sorrow.  My tears are from sheer joy at
our comedic silly days in the sun together.
I hope you’re laughing too.

Wretched and rancid, Look what the
sand did; it slipped through the
hourglass way too soon.

Seems like yesterday, I was on
a wrought iron chair in my back yard,
preparing to jump into the
plastic swimming pool.
I was singing Leaving on a Jet-plane.
I understood the sadness, the good-bye.

48 years later, no plastic pool,
no wrought iron chair, not
even a song to sing.
But I ready myself for the
inevitable journey, that not
even time will stand still for.

B.L.T and I were talking today.  We thought wouldn't it be interesting if a long lost journal of poetry was found.  But the twist would be, it would be poetry by a non poet, but maybe an actor, an actress, a politician, a serial killer, a fictional character......I was thinking River Phoenix, but it could be anyone from history, what would their poetry look like?  What would the Joker's poetry look like? or Ted Bundy's or John Coltrain, or Jesse James, or Babe Ruth, the list goes on....The Challenge is write a poem as a Historical Character, what's in their heart, how does it shape out.  Lizzie Bordon for God's sake!!!!
Any historical person that you wouldn't expect poetry from...make a note in the notes and mention the challenge... HAVE FUN.  All my love and appreciation goes out to B.L.T for that early morning conversation.