And the children said' "that's my teacher."
And the team said, "that's my coach."
And the soldiers said, "that's my sergeant major."
And the wife said, "that's my husband."
And the state said, "that's my governor."
And the district said, "that's my representative".
And the workers said, "that's my protector."
And the LGBTQ said, "that's our champion."
And the lady candidate said, "that's my running mate."

And his son said, "that's my dad."

Oh to hear our pens together
scratching out dreams
on Italian linen paper,
while espressos cool
in the noonday breeze.
Wiping creme from your wind burned lips,  my toes find your cycling socks
and our eyes meet as if to ask.....
let's stay another day in Toscan....
Rome can wait.

I never though I would get this far,
on a dream and a bag of tricks.
A word whispered in my ear,
and some borrowed licks.

I searched and searched for some lasting peace,
when all the time it was here and now.
Hidden in plain sight,
for me to find somehow.

Then I let go of my tug of war,
no more push or pulling anymore.....

I’ve always been right here, right now.
I’ve always been right here, right now.
And I'll always be right here, right now.

My thoughts always got in the way,
incessant voices from the past,
till I heard the silence,
of peace at last.

"Someday-Oneday" would never come,
though I thought it always would,
so I'd rearrange and rearrange
the best I could.

Then I let go of my tug of war,
no more push or pulling anymore.....

I’ve always been right here, right now.
I’ve always been right here, right now.
And I'll always be right here, right now.

*Haven't been writing poetry much lately......kinda dry. I thought my followers would like these song lyrics.

She is leaving,
leaving things behind,
they are just things she says.

                  She is leaving,
                  had enough silence,
                  deafening silence she says.

                                    She is leaving,
                                    and he won't know it,
                                    he doesn't even know she's already gone.

                                                          ­          She is leaving,
                                                        ­             starting over anew,
                                                           ­          to sleep alone, but sleep she will.

                                                          ­                                        She is leaving,
                                                                ­                                  naked to the sun,
                                                                ­                                  to be what she wants to be.

                                                            ­                                                                 ­                       She is gone......

*.........for a friend.........

====(==O==== )

I saw an old soldier at the nursing home today.
He was sitting in a wheelchair, slowly making his way down the hall to play bingo.
Judging by his age and the tattoos on his arms he had been in WW2.
This was not a frail man, he still had some muscle tone in his arms.
And as he gently put his hands on the wheels, he looked up at me as I walked by.
I saw in his face, the face of a soldier determined to climb that last hill into battle.

###====(==O==== )

My dear friend was a day
older today
with the rising sun.

We all gathered 'round
to celebrate
and to find some fun.

The presents were grand
we sang him the song
that is always sung

I could see in his smile
that his battle
was finally won.

From the light of the candles
flickered the truth
I saw the years in his eyes

but not the years of age,
there was something more
eons of something wise

free of his past,
freedom at last
no verses were left unsung

I could see in his smile
that his battle
was finally won

Surrender now,
surrender to
what was falsely
taught to you

incessant myths
that once abound
are now to him
but just a sound

I can rest in the knowing,
his future is clear
now that he's found his light

just as sure as the night
follows the day,
and day follows the night

I only hope
he knows that his journey
has just begun

I hear in his laughter
the joyous song
of the enlightened one

and his pain is naught
but the sound
of a distant drum

and I see in his smile
that his battle
is finally won.

We are the stuff of stars,
left here to learn of love.
Learn of that
which was here before us.

To shed this cloak of flesh,
to look deep within two souls,
see the oneness
of the universe.

We are the stuff of dreams,
never to wake from sleep,
or know the mystery
of this life.

We are the stuff of stars,
that trail the night sky,
from dust we came,
and dust we leave behind.

*The Perseids /ˈpɜrsiːɨdz/ are a prolific meteor shower associated with the comet Swift-Tuttle. The Perseids are so-called because the point from which they appear to come, called the radiant, lies in the constellation Perseus. The name derives in part from the word Perseides, a term found in Greek mythology referring to the sons of Perseus.

Summer bicycle
so unaware of the earth
spinning neath it's wheels.

This is a calling out to all of my fellow poets, from the dungeons of home renovation. You no doubt wonder where I have been, I am deep into duty, and my writing has taken a backseat for a while. Spring is passing me by and I need your prose.......please dig deep inside and give me back my Spring. Thank you.**

Tell me of Spring dear poets,
do the colors drip with dew?
For I'm locked inside my responsibilities,
and must do, what I must do.

No one should miss a season,
for there are so precious few.
So pen for me your visions,
whether dremt or whether true.

On my 5th Thanksgiving
my parents took me to my Grandmothers house.
It was a short drive from Miamisburg, Ohio to Liberty, Indiana.
Over the Little Miami River, past empty harvested fields.
Dairy farms, and towering silos.
Frozen horse troughs, and soon to be rustic barns sheltering small livestock from the cold.
There was snow on the ground and roof, and the cattle, sheep and goats were already having their dinner.
There were no Christmas tunes on the radio of our Ford, but rather “Let Us Break Bread Together” by some local church choir.......... A sadness came over me as I looked at the animals in the field, and I whispered in my Mothers ear........Mommy, do the animals know that it is Thanksgiving?

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone

Into the death room I was led.

Where nature's last sparks of electricity
pulse through a familiar body,
barely stimulating a heart to pump blood
through frail and ag'ed  mottled skin.

Where light behind once azure eyes
slowly dim to opaque blue.
Eyes open, but not seeing,
ears hearing, but unable to respond.

Dentureless mouth agape,
taking almost mechanical shallow bursts of breath
in marionette fashion,
as if strings pulling bony shoulders sharply up and slowly down
were methodically, dramatically, skillfully manipulated
by a hand unseen.

Sunken face reveals the hidden shape of the skull within.
Smooth, silky flesh
stretched o're an unfamiliar, emotionless, flicking gaze.

No incoherent moaning today,
no unconscious slowly floating arms,
nor grasping of my fingers to let me know
.....I am still here.

The light switch is being turned off.

In the death room the dash between ones all important dates is born. Mary Elizabeth Fields Goodwin .......Born 7/31/18 - Died 9/17/16
…...like a babe, the dash is delivered.

Was it a full life, this dash?
Was it meaningful?
Was it loving, giving, humble?
Did this one get to do all that it wanted?
Did it finally arrive at where it had hoped it would be?

Or was it filled with regret and remorse,
or hatred, pain and sorrow?
The death room puts it all into perspective.

It was a life.....
It was a life lived.......that is all.
Nothing can be added or taken away.
Nothing was ever missing, broken, or damaged.

Who would dispute this in the death room with its finality?
Its silence,
its soul-less body that had never been perfectly still in over 98 years?  

This life that lived exactly the amount of time that it lived.
A leaf in Autumn, spiraling slowly to the ground,
with no parade, no fireworks, no angelic chorus,
just a husband of 79 years, a daughter, a son.......

Draw near and say your goodbyes now......
the death room is almost here....

It's all right Mom, it's alright to go now...... We'll be Okay.......
A stroke of the brow,
a last breath.......

Let go of a lifeless hand.......... and the death room is born.


*This poem is for all of you poets who have encouraged me to keep on writing. You know who you are.

I have wandered down this lonely path for 13,00 days,
searching 13,000 ways for something divine.
With one eye on the sunrise, the other on sunset,
hoping for the prize they said would be mine.

I have tried to be the singer, when I should have been the song.
I have tried to fight a river full of rage.
Looking for an island in a world I don't belong,
trying just to run the human race.

Running like a fool through fields of dreams,
I trip and fall upon the truth.
Posing as a player in some childish game
I learned of in my youth.

I have challenged Love and Passion, surrendered to It's sword,
while the blood of my soul poured to the ground.
Pledged allegiance to the Father Son and Holy Ghost,
awaiting for It's host to show me around.

I have tried to please the masses, when I should have pleased myself.
Feared a reaper though I'd never seen It's face.
And all the while a voice inside of me kept chanting on,
you must try to win the human race.

I have wandered down this lonely path, for 13,000 days,
searching 13,000 ways for something divine.
Believing that I know the way, I run the human race,
but no one truly knows what they will find.

"Nothing will ever come between us", you said,
now there is something playing in your head.
I know he's just an old boyfriend from school,
but don't you see I look like a fool?

This is the last straw, the last drop of wine,
you'll have to tell him yourself my friend.
I am fresh out of understanding,
and don't say that I am too demanding.
We are to long together to start playing games
let's not watch this go up in flames.

Can't you see you are living your past,
trying to hold on to what you can't grasp?
I am sorry, he can't spend the night.
No, I am not trying to start a fight.

I'm sure he's got someone else to *****.
Someone, somewhere that he can do.
Did you tell him that we're a pair,
it appears he doesn't seem to care?
We are to long together to start playing games,
let's not watch this go up in flames.

Walls are thin I can hear what you say,
I think it's time he went on his way.
It's been like I am not even there,
What do you mean I'm not being fair?

There he sits with my scotch in his hand.
Is that his bike in the drive, who does he think he is?
I see his eyes follow you,
watching every curve like I use to do.
We are to long together to start playing games,
let's not watch this go up in flames.

Why did you let the Letterman in,
with his motorcycle helmet and all his leather garb?
Tattoos and earrings are scaring me half to death,
this is the suburbs you know?



*A peek at an otherwise happily married fictitious couple named Bob and Mary....... And there surly visitor Steve, the Letterman.

I heard a tree fall in the forest.
I watched it drop down to It's humble grave.
I saw a star streak across the heavens,
and prayed to God for my soul to save.

Where are we going, what are we doing?
What is the purpose of this crazy game?
Who are the winners, or are there any losers,
or when we get there will we be the same?

I've made mistakes, tried to correct them,
then later on I'd laugh and wonder why.
When I was younger I longed for living,
but now I wonder when I'm going to die.

And in the mourning when it's all over,
when I find out if this was just a dream.
Will I discover I spent a lifetime,
wasted learning someone else's scheme?

Do you think I'm a Madman, do you say I'm a fool,
asking questions, dreaming dreams?
Everybody is wondering,  everybody is scared
of what tomorrow will bring.

I will not bend, my heart is true
and I will not kowtow to you
I do not fear your will on me
I am the might of one you see

I'm not alone nor have I been
truth holds us fast from your dark sin
and so wave not your flag at thee
I am the might of one you see

So turn your words around and 'round
till down is up and up is down
mine eye will not its gaze be free
I am the might of one you see

a day will come our voice will roar
your thrown will fall, your voice no more
unmasked and all alone you'll be
I am the might of one you see

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Come, take my hand.
I know you think this is the end.
My sad, but wiser friend,
love will find you once again..........

You will have heartache, you will have pain.
And think the sun won't rise again.
But flowers bloom from Winter's sting.........There will be Spring.

The sleepless nights, the hazy days.
The emptiness that stays and stays.
One magic moment, your heart will sing.......There will be Spring.

I know these things to be true
for I've lost love much like you.
That is why you can rely on what I say.

There'll come a day when skies are blue,
no longer lost, love will find you.
One magic moment your heart will sing.........There will be Spring.

And when the tulips, are in bloom,
heartaches turn memories, and none too soon.
Maybe there'll be, someone like me.........There will be Spring.

Do not tell me not to talk so much,

while you sit there in your stoic, vague, unreadable, silence......

Playing your life-like a poker game,

looking for “tells” in everyone,

feeling lucky,

deeming us out here as damaged,

missing,

broken,

Constantly awaiting my next **** up.

That **** up that you know is going to happen.

Coldly, methodically critiquing my every move,

painting me incapable of producing a life worth living.

How clever you think you are, to not laugh at my jokes

or not carry on conversation unless you deem it worthy.

You do all of this to not give up your “tell”.

Not let anyone into your world.



Do not tell me to not flail my hands when I talk,

because you are not as excited about your life as I am.

In fact do not think you have authority to deem anything I do as right or wrong.

You do not have that luxury.

If and until you learn to love yourself

your ego will continually feed itself by debasing,  

feeling the need to change everyone around you.

How tiring it must be to sit in judgment of me,

picking apart my existence.  

What goes on in your narcissistic mind, that makes you not accept me as I am?

Why is my freedom less important than your picture of how I should be?



Although, not intentionally, from your dysfunctional life,

you have produced a seeker of the truth.

And Love was the stimulus.

The love that I never saw.

I learned to love myself.......unconditionally.

But where did that enlightenment come from?

It came from Love itself.

Tapped me on the shoulder,

wrapped its arms around me,

and led me to the light of truth.

You will turn around one day and look for me,

I will be gone.

You will have no one to share the rest of your life with.

This short, meaningful, time we have on this earth,

the one you ****** with and lost.......

There will be no one willing to play your poker game,

and you will have to die alone.



I believed you,

I looked at myself through your eyes

and I saw the misfit that you believed I was,

and I bought it.

After all, you are the one from whom I was to learn life.

But I did not get the education I deserved.

I was formed out of your mind,

from a mistake you made.

And I was made to believe that I too was a mistake.

Because you couldn't keep your **** in your pants.

I am the product of a hot August, unairconditioned night of sweaty lust.....and it was probably my Mother's manipulative doing.

She needed to keep you around, so why not another kid to suckle her *** and make you go out and make more money.

Was I planned, did you look into my Mother's eyes and lovingly say, let's make a baby?

I think not.

You ****** up.



Enter the rearing of a mistake.

****, you will never know just how incredible I am, you will never see me as I am, you will never see anyone as they truly are.

You are so brainwashed with you prejudice, playing your poker game, looking for your “tell”.........

Black coffee
2 eggs looking at you
buttered Wonder bread
morning paper
horn rimmed glasses.
neatly pressed short sleeve summer shirt, with a Fruit of the Loom tank.
work trousers and oil resistant black shoes
Old Spice, and Brylcream
Howdy Doody in the background
the screen door slams
a white Ford Farlane 500 starts up and pulls away

awaiting the sound of the Ford
wash up for dinner
pork chops, sauerkraut
applesauce
green beans
evening paper
maybe the Flintstones or Dragnet, but always the Friday Night Fights
late night visits to the fridge for a sip of Malox.

My Father does not believe there is a heaven, or hell
he says when you die, you just die.
But I don't believe he ever knowingly lied to me.
He voted for George Wallace, but he also Voted for Barack Obama, twice.
He served in the Army during World War II, and still cooks hash brown potatoes every Tuesday night for his local American Legion, where he also plays poker and most of the time wins. When I asked him how to win at poker, he'd smile and say... "Luck." When I asked him how do I get some Luck, he said "count your cards."
He doesn't want a funeral, no music, no wake, no one to say anything about him. He wants to donate his body to science. And cremate the rest.
He says, "shut up and let people tell you who they are."
"Everybody is OK son , most don't know it though."
"Never count your money in public."
He has a small tin on the kitchen counter full of twist ties, hundreds of them.
There are shelves in the basement full of canned food and paper goods.
Depressionites are always ready for the next one.
When my Father and Mother go to their class reunion, they are the only ones left in their class.
I asked him what was the hardest thing about being 95, and both of them said, "all of our friends are gone, all of them."
My Father is 95 this year.

Happy Father's Day Dad

*Thank you for letting me ramble here, I feel so much better. I am ready to have my eggs and coffee now."