Back in the old days, when i was a just a kid. We would walk through snow that was 2ft tall. So quit complaining. Did you ever hear that...well i did as i would walk 1 mile everyday 4 xs a day, to school and back...

Back in the old days....

Spring, summer, fall and winter.
If we wanted to get somewhere
WE WOULD HAVE TO WALK...
Whether to a swimming pool,
A football game, or the ice cream shop
WE WOULD HAVE TO WALK...
On days of thunder storms,
Pouring down rain,
we put on our raincoats, because
WE WOULD HAVE TO WALK...
On days when i was not at my cottage
I'd walk to a friends house and we
Would walk to Navarre Park swimming pool
Because
WE WOULD HAVE TO WALK...

I think back to those days, life was simple and safe.

I would walk to football games and walk home in the dark....teentown....and walk home in the dark...simple and safe....that was back in the 50's....there was no fear...perhaps that was because we were young or just lucky ....

WE WOULD HAVE TO WALK....

By~judy

You say doctors will
make the best poets.
They will search your emotions
by the skin; cutting open to reveal
and revel
with surgical precison.
They will play with
heavy drugs and blades--
nothing shall hide beneath
the armors of bone and muscle.
They know the anatomy
of the heart too well.
They will find the things
you have hidden in your chest.

I say
doctors will never be poets.
They are too mechanical,
too fast with their edges
and ridges.
They cannot see the pain
as pain but merely as an anomaly.
That sadness is black bile
not melancholia.
They cannot sing to you
but only clammer in medical jargon.

Poets will use their imperfect words,
and perfect rhymes
to find the secrets of your rib cage
with ease.
They will find every flaw
of your broken body
and make it the best story
you've never heard.

Doctors,
they will put love to define as
a momentary rush of adrenaline,
an arrythmia for another human
caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm.

Poets will tell you
that love is the first jolt
of life for them.
They will say love is a state of euphoria
that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies.

Doctors say that
veins carry blood
devout of oxygen.
I say that they carry your broken emotions
to their feelings factory
to mend it within its beautiful catacombs.

All those doctors
will find and fix you
with perfect solutions.

And these poets
will do their best
to be your perfect solution.

I do not like this phase of a heart break.

When you purposely avoid love songs,
Or sometimes you play them just to make yourself feel like your hearts still pounding.

When the person you loved and hid from every waking soul is brought into a conversation.
Or when he isn't.

When you see other lovers who have made it years without the cruel hand of fate ripping their love from them.
Or when you see they haven't.

When you notice him writing you smaller, casual messages when they use to be breathtaking and beautiful.
Or when he doesn't write at all.

When I ask you if I am pushing you away and you say no.

"Alright, happy birthday! Text me later tonight?"

"Will do"

When every hidden goodbye ends with those two words. And my broken, belittled heart.

(i. r.)