I'm sure that if you're like me
This poem that you are about to read
Is at this moment on a phone that's smart
Secretly wishing that you were

You make it through the first couple lines
Enjoying the cadence of the rhyme
When it all comes to a stop is when you look up
To see who just got onto the bus

A young mother with a couple of kids
Going back to the poem you just left
Though it really has nothing to say
You enjoy the vibes it sends your way

Earlier you started your day on the back porch
A cup of coffee, a cigarette that you just torched
As the first hint of birds start to sing
Out comes the phone with its poetry

You take a sip of your morning brew
As both it and the rhyme relaxes you
The birds in the background continue to sing
As poetry flows to their sweet melody

With the sleep from your head fading away
You stand to ready yourself for another day
Taking with you your phone back inside
Where soon both you and it will take that bus ride

We have a lot of love to give
But have to spread it thin
For just as one is turned around
It seems two more come in

If they stay here for too long
We see their hope begin to fail
Curled up in the corner
Eyes downcast, no waggy tail

Many tears have fallen down
For those who come to us alone
But you can turn a life around
By giving one a home

High atop the spire beneath a cloudless sky
the Cross stands forlorn Christmas is nigh
since long in the past time beyond recall
no bells chime here sung no carol!

But still its heart flutters as it hears the Lord's voice
I carried your burden and set for you the choice
to do this world much good and love your fellow men
be happy in others' happiness take share of their pain!

Kind Lord mutters the Cross men still live for gain
act the way it seems your blood was shed in vain
they war and breed hatred between them raise wall
hanker for pelf and power in their loss they squall!

The church lies abandoned starkly white and bare
only the Cross bows to the Lord in silent prayer
still hoping it's not far away when the bells would ring
the Lord would carry the Cross on his second coming!

I'm tempted to yell
Beneath the waxing moon,
Call to the hood whistler
To whistle a tune I knew.
Just one I could recognize,
One to identify;
But it's well above zero
On this shortest day of the year.
My compassion over-rides
The duality in the airs.
Still there's no inkling
Of whatever he's whistling;
I can't locate
Where it originates.
He'll be inside soon,
As we move to hibernate;
I sincerely hope he's there,
Whatever tune he airs,
Come Spring.

I am no more than an Courier
A wanderer through life
Words are what I choose to cling to
Purveyor of the times

Spending forbidding moments in the desert
Just to watch it bloom at night
The chilling winds that blow the stinging sands
Help create that which I write

I look for answers in the greyest of skies
Where there's no limit to the powers that be
The howling wind changes the shape I'm in
That only the darkness it can see

The river that flows freely from my soul
Starts out where this life fails to end
And when it reaches its destination
The tide will rise again...