One foggy morning I went walking
Down the pathway to the sea
Cool and dreary
Very eery,
Something, Someone followed me.
I hurried forward never turning
Was I afraid my past I’d see?
I stopped and looked and she was there -
The Woman with the windblown hair.

Standing still, just like a statue
Windblown hair was all that moved
Cool and wary
Very scary
Truth, or something she must prove?
She turned around and bid me follow
To a clearing in a hollow
Soon I knew why I was there,
The Woman with the windblown hair.

Long years ago; forgotten summer
I met a woman with long hair
Very ****
Apoplexy
Caused me stand quite still and stare
To my surprise she then approached me
I stared, but she did not reproach me
Her beauty was without compare -
The Woman with the windblown hair.

She took my hand and bid me follow
To a clearing in a hollow, on that steamy summer day
Sun resplendent
Very pleasant
The grassy spot where we did lay
I loved her then, and tried to hold her,
The evening and her voice got colder
“We’ve had this afternoon to share,”
The Woman with the windblown hair.

“But I’ve a husband; he’ll soon be home.
You’re young, with life in front of you
I was only
Very lonely
I’ll ask forgiveness when it’s due”
She left me, with a final kiss,
“Respect me; Never speak of this."
She left, and left me standing there
The Woman with the windblown hair.

As I recalled those ancient memories
She turned and stared with eyes that burned
Both eyes teary
Very weary
“My husband never did return”
Suddenly the wind was shifting
The sun came out, the fog was lifting,
The Woman with the windblown hair
Was no longer standing there.

I stood alone for what seemed hours
What had happened? How was I supposed to feel?
Ghostly meeting
Very fleeting
Yet it seemed to me quite real.
I felt that I’d been taken there, and
The Woman with the windblown hair
Had spared a young boy’s future life
The boy who loved another’s wife.
PwL  5/16/15

It was a windy, wintery day in spring;
I had on my summer clothes.
Then it started snowing and
My nose, and toes, soon froze.
Why did I not wear a warm, wool coat,
With a scarf, and hat, and such?
I can only say, that on that day,
I wasn’t thinking all that much.
I guess I thought that I was cool,
But what I was, was very cold,
And if my Mom had been around that day,
She’d have said, “Son you’re too old,
To be running ‘round in a short sleeve shirt
On a windy, wintery day.
Son, you’re dressed
Like it is summer, and it isn’t even May.”

But my brain was filled with other things,
Like what to say on my first date,
And how not to get there early,
But make sure I wasn’t late,
How I thought the shirt would
Match my eyes, make me look kinda buff,
And how much cologne I needed,
Was that too much, or not enough?
How to act if her Mom and Dad were there?
Or if we were alone together?,
With all these thoughts inside my head,
I thought naught about the weather.
Still snowing when I went around
A curve a little fast,
I tried in vain to hit the brakes,
But I guess I hit the gas.

The car was stuck, and I was
Late, still had eight blocks to go,
I tried running on the sidewalks,
But now they were covered in snow.
I slipped, then tripped, and landed
In a snowdrift four foot deep,
This can’t be real I reasoned,
I’m in a nightmare. I’m asleep.
But it wasn’t a dream, I was wide awake.
I was shivering; it felt like frostbite.
Surely my dream girl was worth it,
We could still have a wonderful night!
Finally, I climbed the steps to her door,
Rang the bell, and it opened wide.
Her father said, “Son, can I help you?”
You must be freezing, c’mon step inside.”

“YesSssir, I’m hhhhere, to pppickup your daughter,
Cccan you sssee if shshshe’s ready to go?
Thththankyou for letting me in
Sssorry ‘bbbbout all the snow."

“Son, she’s not here, he shook his head slowly,
I’m afraid it would be a long wait.
Not sure when she’s coming home,
She must have forgot she had a date.”

Phil Lindsey 1/12/17

I was hungry. Starving, actually.
I spied an apple in an apple tree,
It looked so very good to me,
Though it was high as it could be.
So I took a ladder to the tree,
And climbed it, oh, so carefully,
And when I was close as close could be,
I reached out, but it was plain to see,
That a worm got there ahead of me!

But I used to hear my Granny say,
"An apple a day keeps the doctor away."
So I climbed down, and what can I say,
I ate the apple anyway!

PwL  3/13/16

A vessel with some water,
The proverbial impasse.
‘Tis often seen half empty,
Yet it seems a half full glass.

Who drank the last swallow from the half full glass?
Is optimism on the brink?
Will our pessimistic present pass?
So we can fill the glass and drink!
For all in optimistic camp
Can we insure the world's survival?
Can we, other gloomy souls revamp;
Stage a miracle revival?

Like a prophet or evangelist
Laying hands upon the crowd
A *****’s lips, once shunned, now kissed,
A beggar not too proud
To ask the rich to share some love
Or a grain of understanding.
Would manna, sent from Heav’n above
Restore belief in those demanding
Proof.  A sign or something else
To kindle hope and quench the fear
That our half full glass has shattered
And the end is drawing near.

And for those who suffer in the dark
Is Armageddon on its way?
Has the Devil gone and lit the spark
That precedes our judgment day?
There are cops committing ******
And crazies killing cops
Are the pessimists so positive
That the killing will not stop?
What then, could be life’s purpose
For those who have this view?
It seems that all the pessimists
Are a suicidal crew.

Is there then a cure for pessimists?
Or are they the smarter folk?
Are the optimists so blind
They cannot see the joke?
For what, if not a joke
Is a world without control
Did God put all he had on ‘odd’
And then say, “Let’r roll!?”
Every gambler has a system
‘Guaranteed to win’
God says, “Goodness conquers evil
Compassion conquers sin.”

But is His system failing,
As the pessimists believe?
Should we all fold, throw in our cards
Rise from our chairs and leave?
While the optimists are calling
Saving wealth they cannot spend
For you cannot take it with you
When you finally reach the end.

I have not the answer,
Though I’d opt for Half Full Glass
I want to believe in something
That gives us half a chance.
But speak out loud ye poets
If you think the same or not.
All entitled to a voice.
Our voice is all we’ve really got.

A vessel with some water,
The proverbial impasse.
‘Tis often seen half empty,
Yet it seems a half full glass.

Phil Lindsey 4/20/15

Garage: A keeper and protector of things past and present. A time capsule for future generations.

Rows of expired license plates, tacked to the wall as a memorial to cars long since traded in.

Matching bicycles, hanging on hooks from the ceiling, together
have less total miles than last year’s Boston Marathon runner-up.

The obligatory 4 x 8 sheet of pegboard, with brackets for tools bought just to fill up the space. Only a few, borrowed by neighbors years ago, are missing.

A lawn mower, and a half-full, red gas can, tucked neatly in the corner.

Brown five-gallon plastic buckets, filled with rock salt, oil dry, golf *****, and the remnants of a spilled bag of bird seed.

Garbage cans, resting up for the weekly trip to the end of the drive. One is for recycling.

A snow shovel, a *****, and a ***, guard the front corner in back of the garbage cans. The garden was at the first house.

A plastic Wal-Mart storage cabinet, locked shut by spider webs and two old spare tires stacked in front of it.

On the bottom shelf, should anyone care to look, are a number of one-gallon paint cans, left by the previous owner, twelve years ago. The brushes, rigor mortis having set in to the bristles, are hanging on the 4 x 8 sheet of pegboard.

Martin:
Stuff on the walls
Stuff on the floor
Hanging from rafters
No room for more

Kim:
Children's playthings long forgotten
Planks of wood almost rotten
Not a car in sight nor much light
It's a dank dark memory dungeon!

Thomas P. Owens, Sr.:
The old Dodge Dart there
long in need of a ******
back and forth to the A&P;
once a week by my Granny

In an interview, the President maintained,
“What is true … we have ISIS contained.”
He went on at great length,
Said, “They are not gaining in strength."
Which leaves the terror in France unexplained.
Phil Lindsey 11/13/15

The dark of night cannot compare
With the unlit cave into which I stare;
Once entered there is no way out.
Fighting still, I thrash about
Reaching for a solid wall
Terrified that I will fall
Farther down into the void
Into the great abyss, destroyed.

No sunlight reaches into Hell
To light the way for those who fell.
No candles burn to show the way
Up from the depths to light of day;
What would have redemption cost
Those wandering souls forever lost?
The fallen will not rise again
For the flames of Hell are black with sin.
PwL  4/18/15

I dream not of immortality,
But of being less insignificant than some,
Not of being loved by all,
But of being liked by those I’ve met,
Not of changing the world,
But of leaving it unchanged for the better.
For there are many who will have the world changed,
For better or for worse,
Or for no reason at all.

As a king builds a temple in his own honor,
So does a dog establish dominion by peeing on a tree;
The next king builds a larger temple, and
The next dog pees higher on the tree.
It takes only a war, or a rainstorm, or the simple passing of time
To shift the balance of power, for
There will always be another king,
There will always be another dog,
And there will always be another rainstorm.

A baby cries for attention.
He cries, “I am hungry,” or
“I am tired,” or
“I have peed myself.”
And because he is helpless,
We feed him, and we hold him, and we change his diaper.
A poet also cries for attention.
But unlike the baby, his cries are often ignored,
For we do not understand what it is that he wants.

I dream not of a perfect world,
But of a world where there is more good than evil,
More peace than war,
And more joy than tears.
A world where kings build temples for babies,
Where forests and trees are abundant,
And where poets rejoice because their cries are understood.
I dream not of immortality,
But of being less insignificant than some.
Phil Lindsey 1/5/17

“The times they are a-changing”
Guess I’m growin’ older fast
Had a **** good time one summer,
But summers never last.

“Ah, but I was so much older then”
Rip van Winkle shared his drink with me
Woke up; thought we were younger
But the village disagreed.

“Like a rolling stone”
I never stayed on the top of any hill
Got no regrets to mention
But I prob’ly sometime will.

“Blowin’ in the wind”
Seeds from a weeping willow tree
Never knowin’ where they might end up
But it’s the same **** thing with me.

“All I really want to do”
Before I end up in the dirt
Is beg everyone’s forgiveness
But there’s too many I hurt.

“A hard rain’s a-gonna fall”
For now it’s beatin’ on my head
Soon it’ll pound down on my grave
But by that time I’ll be dead.

“Long and wasted years”
Came along and passed me by
Yeah I kinda miss the summer
But I ain’t had time to cry.

“I wear dark glasses to cover my eyes”
Can’t believe the things I’ve seen
Still, I’d pretend that I was younger
But Dylan’s on AARP magazine.
PwL 3/31/15

A beer-drinking guy in a bar
Took a willing young girl to his car
But before they got started,
The old ******* farted
And they died like two bugs in a jar.

A sadder shadow follows me,
Than what I allow the world to see
Like a clown behind red nose and smile
Beneath make-up crying all the while,

The bell-curve will not toll for me
For in a world filled with jealousy
I’m right of center, near the top
But that doesn’t help the pain to stop.

More rainy days, more sleepless nights
And as I age, I cease to fight
Yet the battle I could never win
Still rages on, promoting sin.

My children are my legacy
I wonder what they’ve learned from me
Will they laugh at all the world’s jokes?
Or cry each time their eye is poked?

Will they push ahead and fight through tears?
Or drown pain with cigarettes and beers?
Will they go on fighting, not give up
Drink champagne from a victor’s cup?

Or settle in a comfy place
Content with life, choose not to race
Will a sadder shadow follow them as well?
What did they learn from me – only time will tell.
Phil Lindsey 7/8/15

What then happens to our Father?
For he suffers more than us.
He lost his lifelong partner,
In whom he dared to trust
That she would always be there
Devoted by his side
To share memories of their journey
A long well traveled ride.

Now she is gone before him
Not by her desire or choice.
In the jet trails and the flowers
Listen closely, hear her voice,
“Take care of your Father,
It’s not easy.  I should know.
But he loved me and he loves you too.
We were proud to watch you grow.”

“And now his family is all he has.
Along with memories fading fast.
He has but one more journey;
Joining me will be his last.
Love him with patience  humor grace
Look through my eyes and try to see
He always tried to do his best -
Love him as you love me.”
pwl 12/14

Lady go, Lady go, Lady go now
Something must be wrong
Lady go, Lady go, Lady go now
You been here way too long.

I saw you sittin’ at the bar
So I bought you just one beer
I still don’t know who you really are
But now you’re livin’ here.

That night that you came home with me
I thought you were low on luck,
You said you needed company,
And could sure use eighty bucks.

Now you been eatin’ all my food
“Borrowing” money too,
I don’t want to be mean or rude
But I’ve had enough of you.

You tell me I’m your closest friend
They’ll be good times ahead,
You put hearts on every note you send,
Every night you share my bed.

But everyday you sneak away
And I don’t know where you go
It’s like an Oscar Wilde play.
And I don’t enjoy the show.

You leave long before I go to work
You’re gone till late at night
Like shadows in the sunlight lurk,
Lady, something just ain’t right.

Guess I sold my soul for company
And late night romps in bed
But I’m not sure you're that into me
From a couple things you said:

First, you called me Joe, ( - my name is Tom)
As you showered me with praise,
But then you really dropped the bomb,
When you said, “Joe, I need a raise.”

Lady go, Lady go, Lady go now
Something went all wrong
Lady go, Lady go, Lady go now
You been here way too long.
Phil Lindsey 6/7/15

Cobblestone streets in the middle of a city,
Testament to a generation past.
In addition to the fact that they are quaint and they are pretty,
Its amazing to us now, how long they last!
Phil Lindsey 1/8/17

The shore, compelling from a distance, looks lush and green and warm.
From closer up not so inviting,
Remnant driftwood from a storm
Covers beaches, sea grass, shells,
And secrets kept she never tells,
Of all the travelers that have tried
To harbor there, and all that died,
And still more come and try each day,
Though some give up and sail away,
Some, persistent, wreck their ships
Windblown into coral, rips
Gashes in their hulls and heart -
Remains lie broken far apart.

The sunswept skies and gentle breezes push and pull the wispy clouds.
Yet darkness hovers
Ever closer; rapidly approaching shrouds
Soon will join with lightning, thunder
Mortal winds will blow asunder
Bow from stern and sail from mast,
Weary windblown sailors last
As long as able, choose to fight.
Can they endure till morning light?
When early hues of pink and teal
Dark night’s destruction then reveal.
Carnage strewn about the beach
Like dreams of many; out of reach.
PwL 3/26/15

The River still runs.
Into The Illinois,
Down into The Mississippi,
South through St. Louis and New Orleans
Into the Gulf of Mexico,
Flowing endlessly down, carrying
Sticks and stones and mud and leaves and waste from Spoon River
Into the Gulf and beyond.

The Hill still stands. Steadfast through
Storms and rain and thunder and lightning and sunny days and clear, starlit nights.
And the sleep of those on the Hill is unbroken, yet their voices still whisper
Into the wind and the shadows,
Their voices still scream over the thunder,
And the lightning illuminates the graves from which the voices speak.
For just a second.

For a hundred years the voices told their stories and we listened.
Five generations have passed and the voices have not changed.
Where are the children of the voices on the Hill?
And their children, and their children’s children?
Who will tell their stories?
Will anyone listen?
Phil Lindsey 8/3/14

I once had a dream,
Turned into a nightmare
Thought I was livin’,
Found out I had died.
Heard all of the jokes,
But I just kept laughin’,
Told a couple myself,
And somebody cried.

World keeps on turnin’,
We keep getting’ older,
Mirrors and reflections,
Are foggy today.
All of our children
Are livin’ their own lives,
Sendin’ us emails,
“Hope you’re doin’ OK.”

I know that they mean well,
I did much the same,
Life’s movin’ faster
It’s a young person’s game.
Pushing the edges, and
Paintin’ new pictures
No room for old folks,
Nobody’s to blame.

Friend me on Facebook,
Post pictures of grandkids
I’ll know what you’re doing,
I’ll know where you are.
Enjoy all the hours
You have with your children
Your chips earned as parents
Only get you so far.
PwL 4/15/06

“If  I could only paint,” the despondent poet said,
“If  I could only paint, I would surely knock’em dead.
Like Rembrandt or Picasso, like Whistler or Van Gogh.
I’d open up a gallery, and everyone  would see
The pictures that I’d painted and they would envy me!”

“If I could write a novel,” the painter empathized.
“If I could write a novel, then I’d have realized,
My dream to be like Hemingway, Faulkner or Thoreau.
I’d be in all the book stores, my books would be top shelf,
And I would finally know that I’d made something of myself.”

“If I could hit a baseball,” the author next agreed,
“If I could hit a baseball, I’d be in the major league.
I’d hit home runs like Willie Mays, and run like Shoeless Joe.
The fans would come to all the parks to see me lead the team,
The kids would want my autograph, and all the crowd would scream.”

“If I was smart,” the ballplayer said, “And studied law in school,”
“Then I could be the President, and I’d make all the rules.
I’d be as great as Washington, FDR, and Honest Abe.
I would meet with foreign diplomats, and help the world find peace,
All America would know my name; Play ‘Hail to the Chief’”

“If I could write a poem,” the President bowed his head,
“If I could write a poem, my ego would be fed.
I’d describe the beauty of a flower, and the winds that softly blow;
I’d keep my poems in a journal, let no one ever see,
And be content in knowing that I had done it just for me.”
pwl 3/7/03

It’s Grandma’s first Christmas,
And she’s pretty gung-**.
She’s made mental lists,
Now she’s ready to go!

It’s Grandma’s first Christmas,
And she’s going wild.
Nothing’s too good
For the perfect Grandchild!

It’s Grandma’s first Christmas,
And she’s going insane.
We just follow along,
Daring not to complain.

Shop after shop, and
Aisle after aisle,
Wherever she goes,
The shop owners smile.

Store after store, and
Mall after mall,
The SUV is filled up,
But she’s not done, at all.

Her credit card company
Called the last store.
She said, “Just raise my limit,
I’ve got quite a bit more.”

In one store, and out yet another
With clerks dutifully trailing behind,
“Ma’am, is there anything else that you need?
Anything we can help you to find?”

It was Grandma’s first Christmas
She went kind of berserk.
Who knew that shopping
Could be such hard work?

Now Grandma and Baby
Are both fast asleep.
Their first Christmas will end,
But all the memories will keep.
pwl 12/22/16

Our family had an old blue bus,
It pretty much held the whole of us,
Mom and Dad, six kids and Gyp,
(Out pug dog went with us on many a trip.)
We all thought it was pretty cool,
Back before the seatbelt rule,
To sit on the engine between the front seats.
A blanket on top helped absorb all the heat.
In the wintertime though, we thought it was nice,
When our fingers and toes were frozen like ice,
To warm up on the engine of the old blue bus
Just Mom and Dad and the rest of us.

We went on more family trips than most
Dad drove that blue bus from coast to coast
Kids will be kids, and boys would be boys
Dad got annoyed when we made too much noise.
“Do you want me to stop this ****** bus?”
That scared us to silence, calmed down the fuss.
On the longest trips with lots of kids,
Mom took Mason jars with tightly ******* on lids.
Sometimes Dad would drive through the night,
We’d wake up at morning light
Never knowing quite where we would be,
Carlsbad Caverns? Washington, DC?
At the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown,
At the Grand Canyon, South Rim, looking down.
In New York City, a little lost,
Finding out what slots in Las Vegas cost,
A coal mine in Kentucky, Disney World for some of us,
You’d never know where we might go in the old blue mini-bus.

Sometimes on the weekends, Dad tied canoes on top,
We’d put them in the river, and he’d tell Mom where to stop,
Most times she would be there, but one time she went too far,
Since those were the days before cell phones,
We were up the river without a car!
There were ball games in Chicago, ERNIE BANKS was in our bus!!
He didn’t show up in the picture, but you could see the rest of us.
Lake Bloominton, Clinton, and Mackinaw,
Oh the things that blue bus saw!
Boys Scouts, Cub Scouts, birthday trips with friends
Eventually the bus wore down, but the memory never ends.
I suppose somebody bought it – that old blue mini-bus,
But they never had as good of time as Mom and Dad and us!.
Phil Lindsey 12/30/16

Oh how, in o’er two thousand years, has evil won the day?
How many generations passed that never learned to pray?
Is the patience of a vengeful God strained beyond repair?
No! His mercy and forgiveness remain gifts for all to share.

The miracle that we are here, that we can feel pain,
Is at once a curse and blessing; Is at once a drought and rain.
For in the driest desert, a cactus can survive,
And good fortune and abundance cannot keep the dead alive.

Can all opposing armies have a unifying goal?
Is there a cause so righteous that all men would give their soul
To live and breathe together, to work and play as one,
To lay down arms and all join hands ‘til our days on earth are done?

Those that gather gold have seen the devil in disguise,
For no amount of gold can gain them Heaven’s paradise.
Then ‘tis Paradise we strive for? Peace for all eternity?
Our goal then to discover, where hides Heaven’s key?

A peaceful, loving life on earth, will unlock Heaven’s gate,
Do good unto all others, share your joys and bury hate.
Do not judge thy neighbor, for his suffering you can’t know,
Listen, hear his story, be his friend and not his foe.

Then when this life is over, and the judgment time has come
Be sure that you have sinned, but that those sins are overcome
By the faith that God is present, He forgives our doubt and sin,
Opens up the gate to Heaven, and will gladly let us in.
Phil Lindsey 11/22/15

I know that I can be a poet. Yes, I know it. Yes I can.
I know that I can do it. I’ll get to it. I’ve a plan.
Mr. Billy Collins says you have to read a lot.
Ten thousand hours maybe more, maybe more, but
Maybe not.
That may seem,
A bit extreme,
Then again,
He’s probably right.
So I’ll start my “Poet Reading Time’ right away tonight.

If I cut out TV, and read, say three
Or four hours every day,
Five or six days a week, I guess,
Fifty weeks a year, I’d say.
I can figure it out,
I guess it’s about,
It’s about, it’s about, oh dear,
That’s over ten years to get started
That’s not what I wanted to hear.

There’s got to be another way,
I say, that way, takes way too long,
Did Dylan read ten thousand hours
Before he wrote all his songs?
Did Whitman read ten thousand hours
Before he wrote  ‘Leaves of Grass’?
Did Shakespeare? Well, I’ll never know, and
There’s no one I can ask.

Maybe I can take a night class,
At a College somewhere near,
The kind where after class you
Meet the teacher for a beer.
And he tells you how he wrote
A book of poems about his life,
And how he’d have had it published
If it wasn’t for his wife
See she wanted to get married
And she got pregnant right away
So he had to get a job, you know,
What else is there to say?

Or maybe there’s a contest
Which is only for beginners
A prize book will be published
Including all the winners,
And for fifty or a hundred bucks
You get a copy you can keep,
Put it on your nightstand, and
Read yourself to sleep.
Read all the other “winners”,
Who bought a slot upon your shelf,
What does it say about your poem?
What does it say about yourself?

I guess
I best
Start reading.
I’ve lost hours as we speak,
Maybe I,
Can try,
To write a poem every week.
Read, then write,
Enjoy, then fight
With words upon blank page,
Tear it up,
Then, start again,
A lion king inside a cage.
Reading, writing, ‘rithmetic
Add the hours up.
Maybe by the end of life
I might have read enough,
Maybe too, I’ll write a poem, that
Maybe some will read.  
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe not,
Does a poet pricked not bleed?
Success, I guess,
Depends upon
The goal one sets in life.
To earn a million dollars,
To marry a wonderful wife,
To write a novel poem,
Or a novel, or
A song,
That starts the world singing
Join my chorus, sing along!

So Mr. Billy Collins,
I just bought a book,
A collection of your poems,
I just thought I’d take a look,
And before I laid it down to dream,
I must have read an hour or so
A wonderful start, it was, I thought,
Ninety nine hundred ninety-nine hours to go!
Phil Lindsey 12/30/16

I’ve questioned God’s existence,
His involvement,
His intent.
When things were’t going well
I used poetry
To vent.

Instead, though, I should offer praise
For the blessings
Given me!
And thank Him each and every day;
To better use
My poetry.

Thank You, God, for giving life,
To my family, friends, and
Me!
And for all the others in this world,
Though at times
We disagree.

Thank You, God, for giving strength
Though we are weak
Compared to You.
Help us, God, accept Your plan,
And do the best
That we can do.

Help us to open up our eyes
And see the beauty
All around.
Use our ears to listen closely
To the peace in
Nature’s sounds.

Help us to share the talents,
That You gave us,
Everyday,
And let us not be angry
When life doesn’t
Go our way.

I’ve sinned God, please forgive me
For You know I’ll
Sin again,
But when its time to call me Home
Please open Heaven’s door,
            Amen.
Phil Lindsey,  6/2/15

The blade was so sharp,
That it cut without pain.
Did anyone notice?
Do I have to explain?
Will my voice cry forever?
Or forever be still - as
I join my lost comrades
On the top of the Hill.

They laughed with me, at me,
And behind my back
All the while my morals
Were under attack,
I, the unfaithful,
Became my own jury
That’s when the laughter
Became full-blown fury.

There were many others
As guilty as me
Why are they still laughing?
Why can’t they see?
Why will no one judge them?
My ears ring with pain
I became judge and jury
For I could never explain.
pwl August 2015

I have time.
I won’t be rushed.
Or maybe not,
Don’t matter much -
For which of all my selfish acts
Will live on after me?
Will two dates upon a tombstone
Be my entire legacy?
Will any of my poems
Survive when I am dust?
Or will my ink melt into paper
Like metal melts to rust?

Time will tell.
And we will wait.
Or maybe not,
Depends on fate -
For which of all the famous men
From generations past
Created in their lifetime
Legacies that last
What novels fill the bookshelves
Built on library walls?
And whose portraits hang in silence
In dark museum halls?

Oh to build a monument
To immortalize myself -
To have my portrait on a wall, or
My novel on a shelf
My poems in a library for
Everyone to read -
Mortality is measured;
Confuse it not with greed.
For your face upon a mountain,
If chiseled by yourself
Is no better than a novel
Which stands alone upon your shelf.

Can you name your Grandma’s Grandpa?
Was he a good, and loving man?
Did his name live after he was gone?
Tell me if you can, for
Mortality is measured
We each get our fair share
Put your face upon a mountain –
See if anybody cares.    
Phil Lindsey, 8/21/15

Looking out my bedroom window
past the bluebirds and cardinals
vying for position on the seed-filled feeder,
past the doves and the squirrels
shamelessly settling for the leftovers below,
past the obligatory but unused lawn furniture,
past the turtles and storks and herons, and
past an alligator swimming slowly, but purposefully,
toward his place in the sun,
I can see the second green and the third tee
of the golf course where I live.

In these days of pandemic and social distancing
the golfers each drive their own cart.
On the putting green players stand six to ten feet apart,
no one touches the flagstick,
there are no high fives,
no shaking hands.

The green carts are driven
down the cart path
one-by-one
from two green
to three tee,
like four green baby ducks
following each other,
identical, synchronous, six to ten feet apart.

After teeing off
the players in the carts
again follow each other
one-by-one to the end of the path
before scattering
to the fairway or the bunker or the woods
or the edge of the lake
where the alligator has fallen asleep
in the sun with his mouth open
as if he is warning the golfers
to maintain the appropriate social distance.
Considerably more than six to ten feet apart.

Flying used to be a treat,
Fighting over the window seat,
Peanuts, (free) and lunch at noon
The next flight couldn’t come too soon.

Now, it’s quite the opposite
It seems no matter where I sit
The person sitting next to me
Carried four bags on (so they were free.)

And now we go through TSA
(Where half full water gets thrown away)
Hurry, get in line, and wait
Incoming plane is running late.

Finally, boarded, seatbelt on,
We know it’s time the plane is gone
But on the tarmac we still sit
We think a flight attendant quit.

The pilot says, “We’re next in line.”
“I’ll do my best to make up time.”
And try he does, but it’s too late,
The connecting flight has left the gate.

“I’m sorry, Sir”, they say with guile
They don’t even try to smile
If on time you must arrive,
You’d better rent a car and drive.
PwL  3/31/16

He climbs the steps slowly,
For he’s an old man.
There’s a bench at the top of the hill.
He sits, and he rests, and he listens,
But for the birds, the air is quite still.
He searches for life on the hillside,
The pheasant and foxes are gone,
But it’s springtime, and flowers are blooming,
And the deer, and the squirrels, carry on.

He closes his eyes,
Reminiscing,
When they lay on the grass by the tree.
A butterfly floats past her tombstone,
It’s not the living he came here to see.
There’s a bittersweet patch on the hillside
And he makes a bouquet for her grave.
He places it softly beside her,
Then descends, with barely a wave.

There’s a lifetime of love
In his actions,
Now, eternity calls out his name
Their earth-life together was Heaven,
Without her it isn’t the same.
So mourn not for the departed,
Save your prayers for those living alone.
Request that God grant them safe journey,
On their trip, up the hill, to His home.
Phil Lindsey, August 7, 2016

A leprechaun up in a tree
Drank so much beer that he couldn't see
An unlucky fella
Without an umbrella
Passed by and got drenched with green ***.

I read and find the bestest lines
Are like novels on a shelf,
I read them over several times
And wish I written them myself!
PwL  6/8/15

What tragedy rings loud enough to silence all the land?
What misfortune melds a Nation as no politician can?
Misfortune? Ah, too lame described.  Misfortune is spilled salt.
A tragedy then so defined, must be a villain’s fault.
A villain with intent to harm, to seek revenge, destroy;
Taking credit for the chaos, some morbid short-lived joy
For there will be retribution, if not on Earth then in the End
When a Power greater than ourself will mightily descend
And with a sword of righteousness, cut out the villain’s tongue,
Match the silence of the villain to our Nation's own.

For each assassination, does not a man destroy
But adds glory to the legend, for all history to enjoy.
Lincoln, King and Kennedy all giv’n eternal voice
Julias Caesar, Jesus Christ just cause for our rejoice!
Pearl Harbor, Boston Bombing,, and vicious Nine-One-One
Left silent Nation galvanized when the heartless acts were done.
Silent? For an instant.  But an instant and no more.
And a Nation then united, rise as one with mighty roar!
Transcending gender, race and creed in a common song
The villain will surrender, to our victorious throng!

What apocalypse rings loud enough to silence all the World?
What vengeful God draws mighty sword, his banner thus unfurled
For all to see and fear and weep, beg forgiveness much too late
As we answer for the cruelty, the torment, and the hate.
Will He cut our tongues? thus end the need for power and control?
And by muting interference, a single voice extol?
And with that voice of silence, bring the World to our knees,
To praise the World together, and pray for World peace.
Phil Lindsey, Easter Sunday, April 5, 2015

Tonight I turned the TV off.
And it was better OFF.
And I was better off.

I called my daughter asked her how she was and we talked for an hour ‘bout stuff.
I told her I loved her and she said it back and the emotion was real enough.

And my son called from Texas, said his car needed a tire and he asked me what I thought he should do.
So I asked him if he had a usable spare, he said no, I said better buy two.

Then I made me a sandwich (the TV still off!) and I picked up a book and I READ!!
The plot started to thicken, my pulse started to quicken, but by then it was near time for bed.

So I didn’t watch ‘Wheel’ and I didn’t watch news and I didn’t watch Late Night at all.
I didn’t watch weather, though through the window, I could see the snow starting to fall.
I didn’t watch Stars Dance on anyone’s toes, didn’t watch ******* give some girl a rose.  
Didn’t watch re-runs of sit-coms I’ve seen, and I didn’t watch Judy the Judge being mean.

Tonight I turned the TV off.
And it was better OFF.
And I was better off.

On the last day of school
Rings final bell
Hop on our bicycles
Pedal like Hell
Down to the ball field
Perhaps the town square
It didn’t matter
Our friends would be there.

All joking and laughing
Some cussing out loud
No teacher to hear us
Impressing our crowd
Pitching some pennies
Buying ice cream and pop
Only curfews and darkness
Could make this all stop.

See’ya tomorrow!
Goin’ down to the pool?
Yeah ANYthing’s better
Than goin’ to school
I have to work
Man that’s a ******
Nothing was better
Than the first day of summer!
PwL 3/24/15

‘Tis the tale of Carry-Me Keri,
And how she got the name
On vacation off to Boston
(Of Tea Party Fame)

There’s a trail marked in yellow
Along those famous streets
Her father, saving money
Thought they should walk somewhere to eat.

So they walked the famous trail
Keri and her Mom and Dad
And they saw all kinds of history
And that part wasn’t bad.

But then they set off walking
To a restaurant on the pier
They were hungry, thirsty, tired
In need of soda pop and beer.

It was very hot and sweaty
In Boston in July
So they promised her spaghetti
So she wouldn’t start to cry.

And they continued walking
At least a couple miles
Tears and angry talking
Had replaced the once bright smiles.

Keri sometimes fell behind
When her parents turned around
They saw their daughter on the sidewalk
Sitting on the ground.

“Carry-Me” their Keri pled,
"I’m tired of all this walkin'"
“Pick her up”, her Mother said,
And she continued talkin'.

“You’ve taken us on this long walk.
Now we’re tired, hot and mad.
You’ve got to Carry Keri
Cuz’ you’re the big, strong Dad."

So I picked her up, and I suppose
I thought the restaurant was near
The two girls could get some water
And I could have a beer.

FINALLY!  We made it!
(Although I now forget its name)
It was a ‘recommended’ restaurant,
One of quite a bit of fame.

“Do you have reservations?,”  asked the haughty mai·tre d',
Well......   We had none, of course.
“No matter, you can’t eat here anyway;
“Your daughter’s wearing shorts.”

We turned around, defeated
But what to my surprise
A cab just sitting in the lot
I caught the driver’s eyes.

“How much is it to get downtown?”
(Though I really didn’t care)
I was gonna pay most anything
To get us out of there.

The driver’s surly answer,
I remember to this day,
“If you have to ask, you can’t afford,”
Then the ******* drove away.

I carried her back into town
And we found a place to eat
But before we even ordered
Keri was asleep.

So I carried her to our hotel
She slept until the morn
That’s the story of Carry-Me Keri
And how the name was born!

PwL 4-14-15

The words rush toward the reader,
Slapping her with an emotion, a thought, or feeling,
Before retreating, and leaving only a trace of that emotion,
As a retreating ocean leaves a foamy marker at the high point of its surge,
The foam disappears in time, or is replaced with the marker from the next surge.

The rhythm of this repetition,
Endless and varied as the tide, in and out, and in,
Customized at creation, powered by the gravity of the moon,
Refusing to be understood, though countless men and poets have
Devoted countless years and hours to doing so, still the mystery remains.

The mystery of life, and love, and emotion and poetry cannot be solved,
And that is the beauty of the world! A discovery produces still
Another mystery, as a line in a poem produces still
Another feeling, or a thought, or an emotion,
Understood by no one, interpreted by all.

Men will continue to live and love, solve mysteries and write poetry,
As each mystery is solved, a poet will add another line
To his interpretation of life, leaving the reader
With traces of an emotion, or a feeling,
Which, in time, will also be replaced!
Phil Lindsey 12/28/16

They buildin’ roads out of concrete, cover up the grass
Buildin’ roads out of concrete, cover up the grass
Roads ain’t goin’ nowhere, and concrete never lasts.

They buildin’ tall apartments, reachin’ to the sky
Buildin’ tall apartments, reachin’ to the sky
Don’t need no apartment, if I want to get up high.

They stringin’ words together, tryin’ to build a song
Stringin’ words together, tryin’ to build a song
Not sure what they’re saying, but I think that they are wrong.

They say the rain is comin’, better hide inside
Cold hard rain is comin’, better hide inside
Think I’ll just wait for sunshine, cuz I ain’t gonna hide.

They say there’s global warming, world’s gonna melt away
Say we got global warming, world’s gonna melt away
Oh but I ain’t gonna worry, meltin’ takes a couple days.

Yeah, They stringin’ words together, tryin’ to build a song
Stringin’ words together, tryin’ to build a song
Not sure what they’re saying, but I think that they are wrong.

They say that I need money, in order to survive
Say that I need some money, in order to survive
I don’t have no money, and I think I’m still alive.

And they say you gotta find a woman, if you want a happy life
Yeah you gotta find a woman, if you want a happy life
Well I think I’m pretty happy, and I don’t have no wife.

Yeah, They stringin’ words together, tryin’ to build a song
Stringin’ words together, tryin’ to build a song
Not sure what they’re saying, but I think that they are wrong.

They buildin’ roads out of concrete, cover up the grass
Buildin’ roads out of concrete, cover up the grass
Roads ain’t goin’ nowhere, and concrete never lasts.
Phil Lindsey, April 15, 2015

He left the bases loaded
He left a lot of par putts short
He left friends laughing at his tales
Of how he failed at every sport.
He left a girlfriend at the altar
He left an ex-wife home in tears
He left his brother on a barstool,
Paying for his beers.
He left money on the table
He left well enough alone
He left his job before the quitting time
Told his boss, “I’m headed home.”
He left a scrap of paper,
With a short conclusive note
It said, “I think we’ve got it wrong,
But I am just one vote.”
He left some pictures on the table,
Arranged in a collage
He left his pick up running
That night in his garage.
PwL 3/20/2018

I know all I need to know. And
All I need to know is that I know I
Told you so. I know I told you so,
But I don’t know what you told me, so,
Tell me all you think you know so I
Can say I told you so.
pwl 6/1/15

How can you say
That you’re doing ok,
If the road doesn’t have any curves?
You got miles to drive,
Stay awake, stay alive
Meet the challenges life always serves,
You start out driving fast,
But the feeling won’t last
And complacency won’t win the race.
You can tell who is there,
By the look of despair
And the blank, vacant stare on their face.

Yeah, you’re gonna need help,
You can’t survive by yourself;
And you may even pass someone by.
Never look in the mirror
‘Cause you don’t want to hear
The friends that you left behind cry.
So you’re living at last,
Got no time for the past,
And the future is still miles away,
Better not close your eyes,
‘Cause the road’s a disguise
You have to listen to what the signs say.

As you start to get older,
Nights will get a lot colder
And the engine is starting to fail.
Takes more time to react,
Then you take a look back, and
Other drivers are right on your tail.
Should you pull the car over,
And drive on the shoulder?
Or speed up as they flip you the bird?
They may scream in your face -
May think you’re a disgrace -
Smile back like you just never heard!

‘Cause the race isn’t over
When you’re pushing up clover
Other drivers may be miles ahead
Some are just getting started
Some already departed
In a few miles we all will be dead.
It’s not about driving
Living… surviving, or
Accepting the way that you feel.
There’s a much bigger plan
You’re just lending a hand,
By taking your turn at the wheel.

Free to work
Free to play
Free to buy stuff
Free to pay
Free to worship
Free to choose
Free to win
Free to lose
Free stuff always
Has a cost.
Without freedom
We are lost.
Pwl 7/8/15

He spent his lifetime chasing rainbows,
All the colors, bright and bold
But the years of stormy weather,
Left him lonely, gray, and old.
For the sun to make a rainbow,
There first must be some rain,
For the soul to be forgiven,
There first must be some pain.

Judge not the book you haven’t read.
Your conclusion may be wrong.
The bravest of the armies
May not be so very strong,
For when the battlefield is littered
With bloodied bodies of our youth,
There is still a final chapter,
And that chapter holds the truth.

The sun shines bright and warms us,
Then it hides behind dark clouds,
Skies overtly ominous
Suggesting funeral shrouds.
He sees the remnants of a rainbow,
Fleeting, fading fast,
Strains his aged eyes to see it,
And he prays his faith will last.
Phil Lindsey 2/11/17

I’m astounded, not bounded, confounded, dumbfounded,
Hounded and grounded and surrounded by words.

A Poet 10W:
An artist with a universal canvas, using words as paint.

Ballads, rhythmic fun
Joyful song, Cries of despair
All kinds of poems.

A wordsmith from way far away
Convinced the crowd he had nothing to say;
“My current work does not show it,
But I would be a great poet
If my words would get out of my way.”

Who is there that has not  (after wine and a woman) thought himself Shakespeare?
Desirous of her continuing affections, composed a sonnet recounting her beauty and proclaiming his eternal love…………………….
“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall………………..”

A poet, an artist with little restraint
Penned words on his canvas,
Saw no use for paint,
Bent those words into pictures
Visions out loud
Of most of his work, was exceedingly proud.
But the public was skeptic
And reflected the same
His confidence shattered
His ability shamed
Still he wrote with a passion
As if possessed
To silence his critics
Until each was redressed.
“Who is it says everyone cannot be pleased?
Off with your heads!  Get down on your knees!”
He drew a sharp sword, surrendered a laugh
Sliced his canvas to shreds, cut his pencil in half.
“I’ll be the judge of what I want to say,”
Sheathed pencil and sword, then walked away.
PwL 4/18/15

Behold the artist, blind since birth,
Consider what she paints.
No perception of perfection,
Hence no rules; Hence no restraints.
The colors on her palette
Are hers alone to see;
Created only in her mind,
Her brush will set them free.

Behold the model, sitting naked,
Consider how he feels.
He knows that she can’t see him,
Hence wonders what her gaze reveals.
If silently he moved away,
Would she even know?
Would she continue painting,
Though her model chose to go?

Behold the canvas, total black,
Consider what it means.
Is it art regardless
There are no browns, no blues, no greens?
When the model views the finished portrait,
Does he stand there filled with awe?
For the black, the shapeless splotches
Are what the artist saw.
Pwl 11/28/16

He pulled into a truck stop.
Had to drive a few more hours.
Saw an empty, corner table;
Faded tablecloth and flowers.
Waitress brought a glass of water
“Menu?” as she dropped one down.
Poured the coffee without askin’
“What brings you to our town?”

“Well I’m headed south of Tucson
Your town’s just along the route
Hope the coffee keeps me goin’ -
What’s your special all about?

See my daughter’s getting’ married
And I’ve never met the guy
She asked me to do the honor,
Guess I kinda wonder why.

We ain’t talked much for awhile now.
Since her Ma and I split up
Used to be my Lil' Darlin’ –
Can I get another cup?”

“I been workin’ north of Dallas
Money’s good this time of year,
Told the Boss I need the weekend
He said, “Go on, get outa here.

So I left at noon on Thursday,
****, you know that’s still today?
The chicken fried steak looks pretty good
Then I’ll be on my way.

I’ll get there early Friday morning
Sleep an hour or two.
Then I’ll go and see my daughter -
Have some mashed potatoes too?”

“I’m too old to be this nervous
I’m her father after all,
She’s the one who wants me standin’ up,
She’s the one that made the call.

She said that he’s a Doctor
And I suppose she loves the guy
Course I thought I loved her Mother -
How’s the apple pie?

Would you add a scoop of ice cream?
And another cup of Joe?
When I’m done I’ll use the restroom,
Then I guess it's time to go.”

“Well, Ma’am it’s been nice talkin’
Wish I could stay awhile,
But I’m headed south of Tucson
To walk my daughter down the aisle."

"Yeah, my daughter's gettin' married
And I never met the guy,
But I'll be standin' there beside her
Tryin' not to cry."

PwL 4/8/15

Okay kids, here’s a story for you.
I’m pretty sure it’s mostly true
Exaggerations?  Maybe a few,
About a mixed-up day when the sun turned blue!

Well I went outside and looked around
Bright red grass was on the ground
The sun was blue, the sky was pink
Now that’s a mixed-up day I think!

I turned and asked my good friend John,
What do you think is going on?
John couldn’t answer because, you see
He was laughing quite hysterically!

He said, “Your face is purple, and your hair is green!
You’re the strangest thing I’ve ever seen!”
What were we supposed to do?
On a mixed-up day when the sun turned blue.

I said, “John, look in the mirror!”
This mixed up day was getting weirder.
One ear was orange and one was red
And chartreuse hair was on his head.

His face was filled with polka dots
Turquoise, with some blue-green spots
Everything was a different hue
On a mixed up day when the sun turned blue.

Azure cats, chased by teal dogs;
By the burgundy lake were light blue frogs.
Khaki clouds floated way up high, and
Lime green birds flew through bright pink sky.

Scarlet trees with jet black leaves
Were blowing in a violet breeze.
Yes!  We could even see the wind!
It’s sure a mixed-up day we’re in.

This mixed-up day was getting old!
John walked away down a ruby road,
And I thought I would try to sleep,
Perhaps by counting crimson sheep.

When I woke up it was April Two,
One day after the sun turned blue
So I hope you all had lots of fun
The mixed-up day was April One!
     Happy April Fool's Day!
Phil Lindsey, April 1, 2015

I choked on my apology
As I swallowed my pride
It was caustic -
Burned all the way down,
But she’s the one that lied.
She said she loved me
But she didn’t
She loved the actors we’d become.
Characters from movies,
Protagonists from plays,
Chasing happy endings
And winding through a maze
Of dead end streets and
Errant turns
Lost with no way out.
Captains of a windblown ship
No way to come about.

But we were close!
Our destination loomed,
A beacon showed the way
To avoid the waves and jagged rocks,
To reach the shore, and end the play.
To drink from calm, fresh waters
And soothe the burning in our throats,
Retire both our characters,
Build a castle with no moats.
Have the guards remove their armor, drop their shields,
And toss the helmets from their heads,
Put an end to all the fighting, and
Let the dreams chase us instead.
PwL  5/20/15

Could be hangin’ ‘round a church,
Although it’s sin, it’s not embarrassed, it is
Red and it’s a rule.  We all use them everyday;
Doesn’t have to be in school.
It is most important, but it’s just a
Number
Afterall.
Let me know your answer, with a message.  Not a call.
pwl 1/9/16

been listn’n to poets
for ten or twelve weeks
ten or twelve weeks
ten or twelve weeks
been listn’n to poets
to hear what they speak
hear what they speak
hear what they speak
been listn’n to lovers
as they open their hearts
open their hearts
open their hearts
been hearin’ the hatred
that tears us apart
tears us apart
tears us apart
been talkin’ to strangers
to tell how I feel
tell how I feel
tell how I feel
been talkin’ to strangers
to show them I’m real
show them I’m real
show them I’m real
been hopin’ and prayin’
that someone will hear
someone will hear
someone will hear
been hopin’ and prayin’
that the end is not near
end is not near
end is not near
been listn’n and hearin’ and talkin’ and prayin’
and hopin’ and seein’ and sharin’ and sayin’
and learnin’ and lookin’ and play’n and waitin’
and showin’ and growin’ and all the time knowin’
if I listen to others they’ll help me to see
help me to see
help me to see
if I listen to others they’ll listen to me
listen to me
listen to me.
Phil Lindsey, April, 2015

Winter’s coming.
I feel it in my bones and my body.
I sense it.  I smell it.  I see it in the mirror.
I stand here now with
My back against the fall.

I stand here with my back against the fall, and
Try to remember all that I have learned.  I
Try to comprehend what happens in the end, and I
Try to pretend that the falling snow will melt,
And that my hair will turn dark again.

The early snows DO melt, for winter is a malicious *******.
A brief hot sun melts and muddies the early snows which
Slosh under my boots and cause me to make a mess on the living room carpet.
I track the mess down the hall, shed my clothes and kick my muddied boots
Into a corner, and
Stand naked in front of the mirror, with
My back against the fall.

I draw a bath of warm memories and
Congratulate myself on the success and excess of an ungrateful life.
I laugh at cold winter outside the window until I realize the birds aren’t singing. Where are the birds?  And the flowers?  And the children playing in the yard?
The mirror, and the window, steam up, and suddenly I can’t remember anything!
I use my palm to rub the steam from the glass and see only leafless trees and the
Icy reality of truth.  I stand, staring, with
My back against the fall.

I dry and dress and know that I must clean the mess I have made on the carpet.
But the carpet is ruined and I roll it up and throw it out only to discover and uncover
The failures and sins of summer.  And I stand with
My back against the fall, and
Then I understand it all!

The leaves will come again in spring, the grass will grow, the birds will sing.
The children once again will play, the sun will drive the cold away!
My sins have been forgiven and forgotten and no one noticed my failures but me.
And as others stand with their back against the fall, I may be a memory,
But I will not be here.  I open the door and step into winter.
PwL 3/20/15

Pressed between the pages
Of a novel never read,
Were some faded flow’rs picked in the spring
When love was at its head.  Saved
To capture memories,
(Like the flowers, faded now,)
And yet I smell the springtime,
And I feel the warmth somehow.
For first loves live eternal,
And though faded, stay quite real
Months and years and decades
Are time enough to heal.

The tears that fell upon our cheeks,
Like the flowers now are dry,
Now the sun is shining brightly
In a clear blue springtime sky,
New lovers pick new flowers
And store them fast away,
Pressed between the pages,
To remind them of the day,
When love was more than memory
Like the lovers, life was young
And the days were all in front of them
Their song yet to be sung,
pwl 3/9/16