The sun
rose again
today.
God sighed,
looked away.  
Jesus wept.

r ~ 5/18/14

Everything now is bass ackwards
Nothing is the same
Up is down, in is out
Early is now late

Where we end at the beginning
Right out the starting gate
Tomorrow is the day before
And the day before was yesterday

All that's left in what was right
Is not so clearly seen
What was once considered outside
Is now the in between

What used to pass for happy
Now comes off more than sad
And every day of the week
Is like a Wednesday night gone bad

We could talk about it
But what is there to say
When everything is bass ackwards
And it's sure to stay that way

I look at him
Illuminated  by the dim yellow glow
of warm lamplight

He smiles
reclined and comfortable
in the chair of my youth

His rough unshaven face
carries the lines
of a million good times

His warmth makes
the slightly tattered furniture
look better, more comfortable

He stays up late into the night
telling worn old jokes
still funny

He basks in the love of his family
come to see him
and is warmed

I am carried back
carried to my place
in that chair

Loved and protected
rough whiskers on my skin
always safe with him

Sitting in that chair
always with a laugh
always with a smile

Now the oxygen tube snakes
'round his neck
while he tells stories

But his laugh
is still deep
and loud

The hour is late
and I drink his fine whiskey
that he no longer can

I look deeply
into his sparkling eyes
and know that he will die

But not when he can laugh
and still feel
like a child

His little lover drowned downtown the
Emotions little lover found through sound he
Didn't know were too deep, little lover wasn't found but
Little lover sank and drowned.

Her little lover drowned on the highway the
Feelings in the songs little lover played were
Too heavy, even on a good day so
Little lover sank on the highway.

Little lover couldn't swim through pain
Little lover couldn't float on the thoughts from the brain
Little lover couldn't get a single break
Little lover just sank, sank, sank.

And he's crying, and she's crying
Little lover wasn't dead, little lover's dying
No one even saw lover's head above the waves
So little lover's somewhere rotting in the lake.

The funeral had only two attendees that
Weren't paid just to weep and look sad and
Little lover would've hated everything about
That funeral if little lover was still around.

Little lover didn't get a pair of wings
Or fly to heaven to forever sing
And little lover isn't burning in hell
But little lover isn't alive and well.

Little lover disappeared in a second
Little lover ceased to exist then
And little lover didn't tell, not a sound
Little lover just drowned.

Burned bridges
A purposeful collision,
Intentional mistake,
I apologize but it is done .
And there's nothing you can compensate .
Maybe you can relate,
maybe not.
You forced me out that spot .
Your so unkind , and I was so blind .
It's fine
I know wisdom comes with time .
That's the karma of ******* over a good person
the efforts I put in were worthless,
the only emotion that my face holds is remorseless .

have you the seagulls  follow fishing boats
gently on the wind he just gently floats
looking at the nets as he begins glide
looking at the catch and the fish inside

hovering overhead waiting for a snack
waiting for the fisherman to put the small ones back
they fly in there flocks twenty maybe more
following the fishing boats  all along the shore

they make lots of noise as they begin to call
following the fishing boats as they begin to trawl.

If you can keep your head when all about you
  Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
  But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
  Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
  And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
  If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
  And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
  Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
  And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
  And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
  And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
  To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
  Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
  Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
  If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
  With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
  And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool,
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.