You know what the stories say
About me. They call me silly,
Foolish, disobedient. They say
I should have listened to my
Father. Now he was a guy
Worth listening to: the one
Who built the labyrinth -- the one
That caged the bull-headed beast
And sent virgins, hopelessly
Lost, to their deaths.

He made me a pair of wings
And when he was finished
told me to contemplate my
mortality. And not to fly too close
To the sun. For the feathers
Were joined only by wax and days
But the sun was made of
molten fire and eternity.

How could I listen though?
When after so long
Penned in the cool, dim labyrinthine
Depths of his workshop, I was finally
Free. A soft warm shaft of sunlight
pierced me through and I was lost.
On my ****** flight, I was ecstatically
lost, rising madly to the shivering
brink of infinity.

Imagine me with my great white
waxen feathered wings circling
(Circling) (Circling) spiraling
Higher and higher to a crisis.

Oh I melted.
Then I fell.

I do wish they'd asked me how I'd have
Liked to be remembered though: Not
the merely foolish bull-headed kid
who refused to obey,
But the dreamer with wild eyes,
The one who once flew
too close to the Sun
And briefly,
(All too briefly)
Blazed.

One day I was walking to the kitchen,
you know, to eat,
when I passed the mirror in the hallway.

I've walked by that mirror countless times,
you know, on my way to the kitchen,
but this time something really grabbed my attention.

I stopped and caught my glance in the looking glass,
you know, the one in the hallway,
and just could not look away for the life of me.

In fact I did the opposite and got closer and closer,
you know, to the mirror,
until at last my forehead was pressed up against it.

Then my reflection blinked and smiled at me,
you know, showing its teeth,
but it had giant dripping fangs and smouldering eyes.

I screamed as it reached through the glass and grabbed me,
you know, with it's talon claws,
and yanked me right through into the reflective prison.

I looked around and saw the interior of my home reversed,
you know, like in a mirror,
and the only light came from a strange and unfamiliar window.

I peeked tentatively into the glass of this odd window,
you know, only it wasn't a window,
and saw the horrible fanged thing smiling back at me again.

Then it reached up and eagerly waved hello,
you know, like waving goodbye,
and smashed the glass all to pieces.

As it shattered the light ran out of my new world,
you know, like purgatory,
so I sat down and thought: "Man I'm ******* hungry."

A vessel with some water,
The proverbial impasse.
‘Tis often seen half empty,
Yet it seems a half full glass.

Who drank the last swallow from the half full glass?
Is optimism on the brink?
Will our pessimistic present pass?
So we can fill the glass and drink!
For all in optimistic camp
Can we insure the world's survival?
Can we, other gloomy souls revamp;
Stage a miracle revival?

Like a prophet or evangelist
Laying hands upon the crowd
A *****’s lips, once shunned, now kissed,
A beggar not too proud
To ask the rich to share some love
Or a grain of understanding.
Would manna, sent from Heav’n above
Restore belief in those demanding
Proof.  A sign or something else
To kindle hope and quench the fear
That our half full glass has shattered
And the end is drawing near.

And for those who suffer in the dark
Is Armageddon on its way?
Has the Devil gone and lit the spark
That precedes our judgment day?
There are cops committing ******
And crazies killing cops
Are the pessimists so positive
That the killing will not stop?
What then, could be life’s purpose
For those who have this view?
It seems that all the pessimists
Are a suicidal crew.

Is there then a cure for pessimists?
Or are they the smarter folk?
Are the optimists so blind
They cannot see the joke?
For what, if not a joke
Is a world without control
Did God put all he had on ‘odd’
And then say, “Let’r roll!?”
Every gambler has a system
‘Guaranteed to win’
God says, “Goodness conquers evil
Compassion conquers sin.”

But is His system failing,
As the pessimists believe?
Should we all fold, throw in our cards
Rise from our chairs and leave?
While the optimists are calling
Saving wealth they cannot spend
For you cannot take it with you
When you finally reach the end.

I have not the answer,
Though I’d opt for Half Full Glass
I want to believe in something
That gives us half a chance.
But speak out loud ye poets
If you think the same or not.
All entitled to a voice.
Our voice is all we’ve really got.

A vessel with some water,
The proverbial impasse.
‘Tis often seen half empty,
Yet it seems a half full glass.

Phil Lindsey 4/20/15

A poet, an artist, (with little restraint)
Penciled words on his canvas, saw no use for paint,
Crafted words into pictures; Visions out loud.
Of most of his work, was exceedingly proud.
Unfettered, unbounded, his huge canvas at wait
He brandished his pencil and began to create.
Desiring a masterpiece, appealing to all
Pride prompted his excess, preceded his fall
Trapped in a vortex, surrounded by words,
Shared them with others to see if they heard.

The public was skeptic, and reflected the same
His confidence shattered; His ability shamed
He had written with passion, as if possessed
But the silence of critics left him redressed.
“Who is it says everyone cannot be pleased?
Off with their heads!  Get them down on their knees!”
He drew a sharp sword, surrendered a laugh,
Sliced his canvas to shreds, cut his pencil in half.
“I’ve heard your silence, the first version *****”
Sharpened his pencil, wrote ‘Surrounded Redux. ’

PwL 4/20/15

She smiled, looked up at him, and quickly kissed his cheek.
Then turned and walked away from the turmoil of the week,
Her crystal blue eyes moistened as she neared the airline gate,
And an inner pain engulfed her as she struggled with her fate.

He stood still, surprised, and wondered what she meant to say,
Her kiss was sweet but melted like the springtime snow in May.
Was it beginning? Was it ending? What future lies ahead?
He said 'Goodbye' and turned away.  Words better left unsaid.

Both home to their own islands, alone with thoughts and doubt.
Nobody they can talk to - No way to work it out.
What will she say? What will he think? My God, what have we done?
And maybe out of Darkness a single ray of sun.

Her resolve much stronger than his lust, her drive to do what's right,
Prevailed and gave her judgement (though she didn't sleep that night.)
And life goes on, and snowfalls come - Young children play on sleds,
And both can dream what might have been. Dreams better left unsaid.
PwL  2005

The dark of night cannot compare
With the unlit cave into which I stare;
Once entered there is no way out.
Fighting still, I thrash about
Reaching for a solid wall
Terrified that I will fall
Farther down into the void
Into the great abyss, destroyed.

No sunlight reaches into Hell
To light the way for those who fell.
No candles burn to show the way
Up from the depths to light of day;
What would have redemption cost
Those wandering souls forever lost?
The fallen will not rise again
For the flames of Hell are black with sin.
PwL  4/18/15

For a few years now
I have awaken to the sound
Of my Mom's walker
As she moves around

It rattles a bit
Every time it strikes the floor
Then silence as she pauses
Before moving a little more

Of all the greatest singers
Musicians, classic composers and such
None have ever made anything
I love to hear as much

For I know the day will come
I'll not hear that sound
When she is gone
Never again in this life to ever be found

Though I dread that day
It keeps fresh in my mind
To always let her know I love her
And spend with her all the time I can find

And though that walker's a reminder of her
We all have people in our life
We need to always appreciate
Be it friends, family, husband or wife

For we just never know
When we'll speak to them last
And they will no longer be here
But only live in our past

So take every chance you get
To let folks know that you care
So you don't live in regret
When they are no longer there.

Don't approach a dog unknown to you
Holding out your hand, making eye contact
You may frighten him
Let him come to you

Don't write a poem uninspired
It won't work out
In good time
Let it come to you

Don't go out there seeking love
Like a child with a butterfly net
Live your life
Let it come to you

A young spring-tender girl
combed her joyous hair
'You are very ugly' said the mirror.
But,
on her lips hung
a smile of dove-secret loveliness,
for only that morning had not
the blind boy said,
'You are beautiful'?

He pulled into a truck stop.
Had to drive a few more hours.
Saw an empty, corner table;
Faded tablecloth and flowers.
Waitress brought a glass of water
“Menu?” as she dropped one down.
Poured the coffee without askin’
“What brings you to our town?”

“Well I’m headed south of Tucson
Your town’s just along the route
Hope the coffee keeps me goin’ -
What’s your special all about?

See my daughter’s getting’ married
And I’ve never met the guy
She asked me to do the honor,
Guess I kinda wonder why.

We ain’t talked much for awhile now.
Since her Ma and I split up
Used to be my Lil' Darlin’ –
Can I get another cup?”

“I been workin’ north of Dallas
Money’s good this time of year,
Told the Boss I need the weekend
He said, “Go on, get outa here.

So I left at noon on Thursday,
****, you know that’s still today?
The chicken fried steak looks pretty good
Then I’ll be on my way.

I’ll get there early Friday morning
Sleep an hour or two.
Then I’ll go and see my daughter -
Have some mashed potatoes too?”

“I’m too old to be this nervous
I’m her father after all,
She’s the one who wants me standin’ up,
She’s the one that made the call.

She said that he’s a Doctor
And I suppose she loves the guy
Course I thought I loved her Mother -
How’s the apple pie?

Would you add a scoop of ice cream?
And another cup of Joe?
When I’m done I’ll use the restroom,
Then I guess it's time to go.”

“Well, Ma’am it’s been nice talkin’
Wish I could stay awhile,
But I’m headed south of Tucson
To walk my daughter down the aisle."

"Yeah, my daughter's gettin' married
And I never met the guy,
But I'll be standin' there beside her
Tryin' not to cry."

PwL 4/8/15

In a rundown house,
On the edge of town
Where the grass is overgrown
The door’s unlocked and open,
The windows all are broke.
It’s been exactly twenty years
Since the chimney last saw smoke.

People pass by without seeing it.
Because it sits back off the road.
But when I pass by, I begin to cry.
It has a story seldom told.

Two nineteen year olds
Once planned their life
In that old abandon house.
She would bring a blanket.
He would bring the wine
They would dream about their future
Plan how they’d spend their time
Traveling to Places
Before they settled down
To raise their perfect family
In a house at the edge of town.

She would spread the blanket
He would build a fire
And long before the wine was gone
They would give in to desire
Passionate and furious
Holding on too tight
As if the dreams they shared
Were slipping
Off into the night.
As if the plans they made were
Smoke
From the fire in the room
Rising out the chimney
Into the afternoon,
Blown away by breezes,
Hidden by the clouds.
Invisible like secret fears
Never voiced aloud.

Spring turned into summer
Winter followed fall -
They began to meet less frequently
Then they didn’t meet at all.
The fire and the passion gone
The room now cold and bare,
The house at the edge of town
Unused,
But still standing there.

The memories of our teenage love
Were strong – We thought that we should meet
Once again in the vacant house set back from the street.
We set a date, but I was late
I almost didn’t go.
I sensed we were pretending;
Trying to return
Passion to a fireplace
Where the fire would not burn.

Eventually I pushed the door
And walked into the room
The fireplace had embers
As if it had burned awhile,
A bottle mostly empty
Had been thrown against the wall.
The blanket laid out smoothly,
But that was not quite all.
I saw my former lover
On the blanket dead and cold
With a note scrolled out in cursive
“I guess I should have known”
“You’re not here.  The fire’s gone. I have no need to live.
I hope that you’ll be happy -
When you finally come around
To the place we shared our love and dreams,
The house at the edge of town."

That’s the tragic story
And the reason for my tears;
The house on the edge of town
Still stands, even after all these years.
PwL  4/11/15