Blue and white and lots of green,
filling up the two-track scene,
deep in Texas in the spring,
so many memories do this bring.

Upon the field, that runs with blood,
we stand united, against the flood,
kite shields locked into a wall,
can we stand against them all?

Gorgons stare with pupils stone,
but they do not want to be alone,
but alas their fated curse,
to live without love, what could be worse?

Trapped inside the conscious stream,
stuck within the waking dream,
watching people slowly die,
did most even bother to try?

It was the age when water flowed,
cities grew, electricity glowed,
populations soared, like birds with wings,
wondering what the future could bring?

Underwater, I am trapped,
swimming aimlessly, with no map,
out of breath, but never giving up,
I swallow the absinthe and drop my cup.

Elderberry wine, bucket chills,
a cool wind blows in window sills,
the soothing maroon of gin and juice,
the tartness in mouth, saliva sluice.

Hot amber burn of oak cask whiskey,
the look in her eye is always frisky,
grounded by the earthy of water and scotch,
I turn the heater up a notch.

The sad rags hung about her frame,
she had played but lost the game,
on the streets now, she gets by,
on the edge but never dies.

Hope lives eternal or so they say,
the ones on the street simply pray,
one foot in front of the other,
trudging along even further.

Under bridges around fifty-five gallon drums,
they stand and warm with the other bums,
or that's what society labels them today,
they wouldn't be here if there was any other way.

So scrape and scrape, and scrape some more,
just to live and eat and score,
a bed here and a meal there,
that's why you see them everywhere

We are but pieces with superglue,
holding us together, every day anew,
product of our choices made,
standing in our own growing shade.

But there are no shadows without light,
just look around at midnight,
the blackness is never truly complete,
as the moonlight gleams off life's street.

Saturday morning bus trips
through the land of antelope,
To casinos and alleys,
with a sense of hope,

With multicolored ***** unpacked,
and special shoes upon our feet,
Now has come the time
that we shall compete.

Ten pins lined up like soldiers, standing 60 feet away,
With them, it has now come time to play,
But before we start a ritual that spreads the chilling fogs
dogs, on me, dogs on three, 1-2-3, dogs.

With a swing of the arm and flick of the wrist, driving our thumb into the air,
The spinning ball heads down the lane, seemingly without care.
If we hit our mark, with timing and speed, nothing can stop it,
The roaring ball hooks, right into the pocket.

With pins spinning and bouncing nothing can still stand,
An X upon the scoreboard, just like we had planned,
And if for some reason, a pin or two is left standing there,
We will take aim and roll again, picking up a spare.

Two games down individually, but we are not done,
Time for some baker bowling fun.
7 of these for us, working as a team,
We knock down pins, like a well-oiled machine.

And at the end when we emerge we are victorious
Another tournament won isn't it glorious,
Thanks to all our coaches, and especially coach Ken,
We will miss him next year but will smile and think of him

This season just isn't right,
We didn't even put up Christmas lights,
Not sure why it feels this way,
As we wait for Santa's sleigh.

No Christmas party just no time,
Our best friends moving is a crime,
It's like a pall has been cast,
I'm not sure how long it will last.

No crazy presents, kids growing up,
My son drives his own truck,
Daughter, gone to college now,
Time just goes by too fast, wow.

So as another year-end draws near,
Somebody hand me an ice-cold beer,
Need something to dull emotion,
But nothing stops the clocks forward motion.