Cheap cans of beer and crap T.V.
Seem to stretch in front of me
My wife's been gone for just six days
With her mother on holiday
I'm already flagging under the pressure
Sinking down into depression
Having nobody to look after
Is making me sink that much faster
Having no money isn't helping me
Beans on toast every night for tea
But it's having no one to talk to
That is really tightening the screws
The shop does 4 cans of beer for two pounds
And I keep on going down
Yes, cheap cans of beer and crap T.V.
Is all that is in front of me

A heat wave has hit.
While some people are boasting
About their cool air,
In our house we're roasting.

Fans help a little.
But frankly I have found
That all they tend to do
Is blow hot air around.

People say, "Be cool!
No reason to fret."
Easy for them to say.
I hate to sweat!

I have to tell myself
If I'm crabby and terse,
That I should feel lucky.
Things could be much worse.

A wise man once said,
"Here's some food for thought:
When it's cold, be cold;
When it's hot, be hot."

Wise words, I thought.
I'll apply them now,
As I downed my water
And wiped the sweat from my brow.

Still, when winter comes,
I know my thoughts will teeter,
And you'll be sure to find me
Shivering by the heater.

-by Bob B (8-31-17)

When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?

How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,

cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?

The delectable now—
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
must peter
into silence.

So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:

when will you ever get a second chance at this—
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness—

or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name—

or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?

© BT