I was a teacher once.

My students seemed
like glittering
fantastical birds.

The girls flew and flashed
in their keen new beauty,

the boys perched sullenly
and stiff as boys seem
always wont to do.

I was a teacher observing
the flittering
ephemera of youth,

that one thing
we all remember
always

though it only
stays a little

before it is driven
by worry and the world
into memory

and flies away
into forever.

I dream not of immortality,
But of being less insignificant than some,
Not of being loved by all,
But of being liked by those I’ve met,
Not of changing the world,
But of leaving it unchanged for the better.
For there are many who will have the world changed,
For better or for worse,
Or for no reason at all.

As a king builds a temple in his own honor,
So does a dog establish dominion by peeing on a tree;
The next king builds a larger temple, and
The next dog pees higher on the tree.
It takes only a war, or a rainstorm, or the simple passing of time
To shift the balance of power, for
There will always be another king,
There will always be another dog,
And there will always be another rainstorm.

A baby cries for attention.
He cries, “I am hungry,” or
“I am tired,” or
“I have peed myself.”
And because he is helpless,
We feed him, and we hold him, and we change his diaper.
A poet also cries for attention.
But unlike the baby, his cries are often ignored,
For we do not understand what it is that he wants.

I dream not of a perfect world,
But of a world where there is more good than evil,
More peace than war,
And more joy than tears.
A world where kings build temples for babies,
Where forests and trees are abundant,
And where poets rejoice because their cries are understood.
I dream not of immortality,
But of being less insignificant than some.
Phil Lindsey 1/5/17

I was standing at the corner
Of Yonge and Bedlam Ave.,
When I spied a chap across the way,
The image of my Dad.

He had one thumb in his pocket,
The fingers hung outside.
His other arm craddled a book,
As often in his life.

His weight was shifted to the right,
With head cocked to the side;
He wore his cap over one eye,
Tweed jacket open wide.

He raised his head,
As I did mine,
Looked to me and nodded;
He smiled and touched
The edge of his brim,
I did the same as him.

We crossed with the light.
He passed
And went
Where he belongs;
Me, to the library,
My book was overdue.

Death is a ******
who never misses.
He stalks us all,
calmly awaiting
the proper moment,
takes perfect aim, fires,
and thinks we are gone.
Looking anxiously
over your shoulder
will not avail.
Death is patience incarnate.
He is a gatherer,
ceaselessly collecting,
eternally foraging,
and when he finds us
he slips us into his bag
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a messenger
delivering the telegram
that says our time is up.
He reads it to us
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a conductor
who calls a stop,
sees us off the train
and thinks we are gone.

But death is mistaken.

Death is certain,
but it is not final.
The world we touched
is changed forever
by our journey in it,
however brief or long.
Something of us remains
in a child, a garden,
a painting, a poem,
a kiss, a caress,
a gasping ******.
Our hearts stop beating,
but breath does not depart.
It floats in clouds
of atoms that we were.
Those we leave behind
have only to inhale
and once again
we are with them,
and within them.
Bodies die; love never does.
Each life, sacred and eternal,
inspires Creation.
We are never truly gone.

Poetfreak is gone

The words rush toward the reader,
Slapping her with an emotion, a thought, or feeling,
Before retreating, and leaving only a trace of that emotion,
As a retreating ocean leaves a foamy marker at the high point of its surge,
The foam disappears in time, or is replaced with the marker from the next surge.

The rhythm of this repetition,
Endless and varied as the tide, in and out, and in,
Customized at creation, powered by the gravity of the moon,
Refusing to be understood, though countless men and poets have
Devoted countless years and hours to doing so, still the mystery remains.

The mystery of life, and love, and emotion and poetry cannot be solved,
And that is the beauty of the world! A discovery produces still
Another mystery, as a line in a poem produces still
Another feeling, or a thought, or an emotion,
Understood by no one, interpreted by all.

Men will continue to live and love, solve mysteries and write poetry,
As each mystery is solved, a poet will add another line
To his interpretation of life, leaving the reader
With traces of an emotion, or a feeling,
Which, in time, will also be replaced!
Phil Lindsey 12/28/16

Oh, to sleep the sleep of youth;
Peaceful dreams, and blissful truth
When every morning brings the sun,
Battles fought, and victories won!
Victory sweet, misfortune ****,
Yet those that bear a champion’s heart
Stand upright, tall, despite the end,
And humbly shake opponent's hand
Congratulations on fine play
To meet, compete another day
Hope the foe will others tell,
“He fought with honor, he played well.”

Oh, how the aging fight with sleep;
Nightmares, abject fears run deep
That life on earth is almost done,
Morning might not bring the sun.
Once strong, the warrior now is frail
In the final battle death prevails,
Though none but God has kept the score
The champion longs for one quest more
Long life results in necessity
To replace lost skills with strategy
We long to hear, at final bell,
“He fought with honor, he played well.”
PWL 12/25/16