Being a coach has is responsiblity
When the team wins they celebrate
But you keep them focused for the next game
You push them to be better prepared
The coach takes on all the weaknesses making them a strength
When the team fails the coach know the job wasn't done right
A loss means the coach needs to push and not fail again
If the coach hates losing the team should feel the same way
One common goal and work out the kinks everything will fall into place
No hard work goes unnoticed so earn it and it will get a positive outcome

Who knows why
Before the dawn of time
We were called for such a time as this

In the Masters plan
Every grain of sand
Is poured out where he chooses best

Every century
Has had its saints
With a cause because of you

Here we are today
Standing with those saints
Proclaiming that same truth

Let's not go to waste
Such a time as this
In spreading the good news

For we are called
Heart, mind, body, soul
For such a time as this

Standing on the corner

Of what I thought it was and never will be

Gazing off into the distance

Of nothing in front of me

As the forever taxi pulls up

To take me to nowhere I need to be

I gladly pay the fair

For a chance to see what comes next for me

Simple verses, blessed be the uncomplex,
But the visions, the glimpses,
The sightings, in and out,
Are celestial of, in, and on
This planet shared.

I will walk with you to
Henry's Isle,
You, with me, on the beach,
We will ford Crab Creek,
When the tide is low,
And repair to The  Poet's Nook,
Where a moss stained Adirondack chair
Awaits the Poet Prince,
Your poems carved into
It's soul, it's arms, it's back,
Giving comfort continuous.

This chai, this chair, this throne,
Reserved for the lyricist of our lives,
The shedder of light upon the special,
The seconds, that fete our senses.

I await you arrival.

Tender this serenade, this overdue apology,
For having not thanked you properly
For your living kindness,
Yet my words, insufficient, compared to yours...

Whitecaps coffee-white, a bay frosty.
Sails, 99% white,
Always, gotta be one, black or blue,
Freaking tradition-breaker

White man with white baby,
In a white onesie,
Astride his daddy's tummy,
Dad, he ain't dressed warm enough.

All these observations recorded,
Taxed and paid for, with dandy words
Floating by the nook, overlooking
The whitish sandy beach mapped
As Silver Beach,

Where I pray.

Whither white led?
A summary of twenty writes
In four labored days,
A poetry *****,
To say anything else,
Too little, too more.

Overstayed my welcome,
But a white cleansing accomplished,
With look-backs submitted, got some debts paid,
Bills marked overdue, resolved.

The children unblemished,
To new schools and new troubles,
I can only inky-dinky-rinky worry.

This fall is the season of produce or die.
Of these things I don't joke.
If I get pasteurized, won't be a good thing.

This my style after all.
Simplest, to the point where
Poetry is a luxury,
I can't always afford.