my heart aches for things that have not happened,
will not happen,
and will never happen again.

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

I'm traveling on, to brighter pasture.
I've gone to seek, the rest I'm owed.
I'm traveling on, to meet my brothers.
They journeyed first, they cleared the road.
I'm told that I, will find my peace here.
I'm told that I'm, no more to roam.
I'm traveling on, don't shed a tear now.
It's been too long, since I've been home.

I’m astounded, not bounded, confounded, dumbfounded,
Hounded and grounded and surrounded by words.

A Poet 10W:
An artist with a universal canvas, using words as paint.

Ballads, rhythmic fun
Joyful song, Cries of despair
All kinds of poems.

A wordsmith from way far away
Convinced the crowd he had nothing to say;
“My current work does not show it,
But I would be a great poet
If my words would get out of my way.”

Who is there that has not  (after wine and a woman) thought himself Shakespeare?
Desirous of her continuing affections, composed a sonnet recounting her beauty and proclaiming his eternal love…………………….
“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall………………..”

A poet, an artist with little restraint
Penned words on his canvas,
Saw no use for paint,
Bent those words into pictures
Visions out loud
Of most of his work, was exceedingly proud.
But the public was skeptic
And reflected the same
His confidence shattered
His ability shamed
Still he wrote with a passion
As if possessed
To silence his critics
Until each was redressed.
“Who is it says everyone cannot be pleased?
Off with your heads!  Get down on your knees!”
He drew a sharp sword, surrendered a laugh
Sliced his canvas to shreds, cut his pencil in half.
“I’ll be the judge of what I want to say,”
Sheathed pencil and sword, then walked away.
PwL 4/18/15

Shes been French kissing death
I can smell it on the scent of her breath
It singes my eyelashes
Each time I take a breath
I feel like I'm flirting with death
Kissing death stained her teeth
Turned them brown
Rotten her breath
Killing me
When she smiles I can she hairs
From whatever animal crawled up there and died
Does she know whenever she inhales
The riptide of chemicals that shouldn't be
Is the cause of her putrid breath  
Even when I she's gone away
It lingers
And stays
Polluting the airwaves

I stay up late & float,
haunt the evening airways.
My skin is white
(nearly porcelain)
& my blood is warm
(practically boiling).
But I swear,
I swear
I'm not a vampire.
I have no intentions
of cursing,
frightening anybody,
or biting any necks.
I just want to find
other kindred spirits
seeking answers
for their own
restless nights.