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.

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

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

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

Where you going?
What d’ya see?
A hundred thousand polka dots
A comin’ after me
Polka dots and tater tots
And french fried onion skins
A priest in a confession booth
Forgivin’ all our sins
Two or three gorillas
And an elephant in the room
Someone tell the maitre’ d
He’d best be leavin’ soon
Cuz the waiter and the waitress
Have figured out the plot
And if he hangs around much longer
He’s liable to be shot
By a psychopathic mushroom
Or a ******* pizza pie
While the rabid rocket scientist
Wonders how he got that high
The ******* with bedroom eyes
Looks the other way, and
The specialist in pantomime
Does not know what to say.
A hundred thousand looks at love
Not a single one survives
Yet, with regret and toil and sweat
We go on with our lives.
pwl 5/20/15

Precious Metals

She’s got steel-blue eyes and an iron will
A lead-foot when she’s driving
A silver tongue but she never lies,
Brassy bold when she’s conniving.
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.

She’s got a smile that turns me upside down,
Inside out and every which way
And I hope I’ll get to see that smile
Every morning, every new day.
When she laughs the world’s ecstatic
When she’s angry they look out,
Cause she’s precious metals all mixed up
And here’s what she’s about:

She’s got steel-blue eyes and an iron will
A lead-foot when she’s driving
A silver tongue but she never lies,
Brassy bold when she’s conniving.
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.

She’s got a dynamite body that’ll knock you out
Sometimes she says things without thinkin’
And she likes a good martini,
So she’s fun to take out drinkin’.
She sets her goals and standards high,
Not afraid to chase her dreams
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And this is how she seems:

She’s got steel-blue eyes and an iron will
A lead-foot when she’s driving
A silver tongue but she never lies,
Brassy bold when she’s conniving.
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.

Yeah, She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.

PwL 12/06

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

Dad looked up and stared at me; His blue eyes aging, but still clear.
“Reflection, Son. Reflection. It’s like I’m looking in a mirror.
When I look at you, I see myself, about twenty years ago.
I’m on the final laps of life, you have a few to go.
We don’t communicate so well; It’s hard to tell you how I feel,
But now I’m feeling pretty scared, and I sure hope that Heaven’s real.
I made a list of things I learned; I hope you understand,
If I had done a better job, I’d have been a better man.”

“Go 60, don’t go 80. You’ll still get there way too soon.
Turn the TV off at night, watch the clouds drift past the moon.
Tell your wife and kids you love them; Use every chance to hug them tight.
And listen to the crickets and the tree frogs sing at night.
Life is like a movie; There’s a large supporting cast,
Surround yourself with love and friendship, they’re the only things that last.
Don’t be too ******* others; And give yourself a break,
Maybe, Son, it’s not too late to learn from my mistakes.”

“The doctor thinks the cancer’s back, and there’s nothing he can do.
I guess I understand it, after what I put my body through.
Your Mother and I discussed the end – one of us would be the first.
I can’t bear to talk about it, but watching her die was the worst.
She was a special woman; Now she’s waiting up above.
At least I hope that she is waiting, I know I’ve been hard to love.
I’d much rather she was sitting here, my ashes blowing to the wind.
But if there’s a silver lining, it’s that I’ll be with her again.”

“You kids are what we’ve left this world. You are our legacy.
I hope you got the best of her, and not so much of me.
Look at me as if you see your own reflection in a mirror.
Heed the ever-present warning, ‘Things may be closer than they appear.’
I’m tired, and old. I’ve made mistakes, but I worked hard, and did my best.
When God gives me a final score, I hope the good outweighs the rest.
Reflection, Sons, and Daughter. Reflection is the key.
God give you strength and courage to change - based on what you see.”
PwL 5/18/16

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

Richard's son posted a note on his FB page letting friends know that Richard passed away, peacefully, in his sleep, of natural causes. Hello Poetry has lost not only a fine poet, but a great individual with his passing. He was always quick with a compliment, and seemed to enjoy life.  As a tribute, you might want to take some time and re-read some of his work.

Rest in Peace, Richard!

Drivin’ with the kids in tow
Windows down, nowhere to go
Hands outside, feel wind blow
On country roads, fields passin’ slow.

Saw a hayrack sittin’ by a fence
“Rocks for Sale – Fifty Cents”
Thought I, it makes no earthly sense
To demand for rocks some recompense.

But the sign - unique enough to hail
(I protested - but to no avail)
The missus and the kids prevailed
A sale you see, is still a sale!

Before day and feelings I did mar
Realizing for the course it’s par
I turned around and stopped the car
It’s what I’ve become, and whom we are .

To the rack and rocks the kids did sprint
I got closer, had to squint
So I could read the finer print
Kids might have seen, but care they din’t.

Said the bigger rocks did cost a buck
I knew then that I was out of luck
Between a hard place and a rock I’m stuck
‘Twas bait and switch, and smelled like muck.

But the kids had picked from rocks galore
Put them in the trunk to store
The rack was less some rocks times four
And the coffee can had four bucks more!
PwL  5/16/15

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

Sailboat on a purple sea
Yellow skies are all she sees
Lonely Captain at the helm
Lord o’er all her ocean realm.

Sailboat on a purple sea
Sailing through Eternity
The yellow skies reveal her ardor
Searching for inlet or harbor.
Where she can safely drop her anchor
Without hostility or rancor
Stay forever, or a day
If on a whim she sails away.
To search again for other shores
Unmindful of the ocean’s mores.
Sometimes storms impede her course
Fill her journey with remorse
Thunder sounds a deaf’ning roar
Through driving rain, can’t see the shore
Lightning bolts around her flash
As if to call the Captain brash
For thinking that she has control
Over purple ocean’s vitriol.

If ever she regrets her plight
When yellow skies turn dark at night
And midnight storms have lead to loss
She rights the ship and bears the cross
And waits for morning dawn to break
Sun through last night’s rain will make
A rainbow reaching far away
Certainly it will show the way
To steer her sailboat that day.

Sailboat on a purple sea
Yellow skies are all she sees
Buoyant Captain at the helm
Lord o’er all her ocean realm.
PwL 04/21/15

I was wandering the country
In my cowboy hat and boots
When anybody asked me, said
“I’m searchin’ for my roots –
I been livin’ in Missouri and
I’m a stubborn SOB and I wanta
Know just who I am
Want to find my family.

My Grandpa was a preacher man
From Southern Illinois,
Got a married lady pregnant
And they had a baby boy.
The lady moved away
To hide from all the shame,
And the little boy grew up and
Only knew his Daddy’s name.

Well the little boy, (my Father,
From the story I was told)
Lived rough from the beginning -
He was only twelve years old
When he got in trouble fightin’
(Neighbor called his Mom a *****)
And five or six years later
He tried to rob a store.
They tried him as a juvenile, and
Put him in the ‘System’,
Stamped ‘Marine Corp’ on his folder
Dad did not resist ‘em.

He went to boot camp near Savannah
Where they send ‘em all at first
Did the basics and the training
(The first weeks were the worst)
He went to town one evening
Lookin’ for some place to fight
Bought a bottle of tequila,
Found a girlfriend for the night
Told her he was going overseas,
That she should treat him right,
They were sweaty with Savannah heat
Her apartment was nearby,
They made love until the morning light,
She didn't shed a tear, or cry.

In the morning neither one of them
Recalled the other’s name
They shared a joint for breakfast
No blood, no foul, no shame
They exchanged their names and numbers,
She knew he’d probably never call,
He put her’s in his pocket,
Soldier protocol.
He grabbed a taxi back to base.
She spent the day in bed.
Remembering his hands, his face
She couldn’t push him from her head.

A few weeks later she felt sick, and
Went to see a nurse
She prayed that it was a cold or flu,
But expected something worse,
Her fears confirmed,
She begged her God
For sanity and strength.
Knowing that she couldn’t keep the child
So she knelt and prayed at length;
It became to her apparent,
Adoption was the better way,
But she didn’t call the father
For fear of what he’d say.

I finally found her in Savannah
She had never moved from there
Never married, worked a coffee shop
All we could do was stare.
No apologies were needed,
I hugged her,
We both cried,
And I knew that when she gave me up
Something inside her died.
I asked her how she met my dad,
She said, “He was in a bar, on leave.
He was drunk and he was handsome,
I was younger, and naïve.
He told me I was beautiful
I told him he was too.
And I’ll be ******, but son,
Your father looked alot like you."

She said, "I called and left a message,
But an officer called me back.
“I’m sorry Ma’am,” he said,
But your boyfriend won’t be back.
He was killed with seven others
In a terrorist attack.
But he left a lot of letters,
Rubber-banded in a stack.
To “Maria in Savannah”,
No last name and no address
Just a number on the envelope,
You can pick them up, I guess.”

I gave the officer my address, and
He sent them all to me.
There were a dozen letters
All printed carefully.
Your father, (his given name was Steve)
Told me about his early life
Told me what he knew about his parents,
And about the time he spent in jail.
He had stacked up all the letters
Because there wasn’t any mail.
The last one that he wrote me -
His last day as a Marine
He told me I was pretty,
Best lookin’ gal he’d ever seen.
And he told me he was comin’ home
To straighten out his life
And he asked me, in that letter, if I would be his wife.

Will you be goin’?  Or can you stay awhile?
I’ve got a little extra room
And there’s work here (it don’t pay too much)
If you know how to push a broom.
I guess that I should ask you if I’ve got grandkids,
And other stuff like that,
And I’ll bet that you’re from Texas
With those cowboy boots and hat.
Your father grew up troubled
But he was a **** good man
I’m gonna look him up in Heaven,
At least now that’s my plan.
Thanks for findin’ me and callin’
I shoulda called you years ago,
But I was scared ‘bout what you’d think
And ….  Oh I don’t know.
Sometimes I’m not proud of who I am
And all the things I’ve done
Wouldn’t want to push my troubles
On my one and only son.
It’s kinda hard to ask forgiveness from
The son I gave away,
But now you’re here, and I hope
You’ll take a couple weeks and stay.
That is if you want to,
And I know that you probably don’t
But I want to know the son I lost
And if you don’t stay, then I guess I won’t."

I said, “Mom, I’m from Missouri,
I’m a stubborn SOB
I been wanderin’ round the country
Lookin’ for my family.
And I’m thinkin’
You’re the only one
That really knew my Dad
And about you “givin’ me away?”
It’s the only choice you had.
I will stay here if you let me
I’d like to find a gal like you
We’ll make you a Grandma
And then she can love you too.”
PwL  5/18/15

Spring came quickly and
Ended abruptly.
Summer came sweaty and hot.
Autumn winds blew the leaves from the trees and
By the time Winter came, we forgot.

Spring came quickly and ended abruptly.
But it will come again.
Birth and growth and hope and dreams
Learning to live in a freshly made joyous world with
Only the overstated problems of the youth, and
None of the fears of the aged.
Curiosity and wonder and eternal rebirth.

Summer came sweaty and hot.
Long hours of hard labor.
Work and growth and goals and dreams
Chasing elusive, sometimes irresponsible goals often
At the expense of happiness and contentment.
Adrenalin filled days and nights
Peaks and valleys and elastic resolve.

Autumn winds blew the leaves from the trees.
Exposing naked branches,
And squirrel’s nests abandoned by the owners who are
Preparing for the months ahead
Without understanding why.
Others, with lessor goals, content and
Ever resting.

By the time Winter came we forgot.
It arrives too soon.
Memories of growth and hope and regrets
Realizing the fears of the aged have arrived and
Will never leave.
Understanding that Seasons change and
In Winter, life on earth recedes.

Spring came quickly and ended abruptly.

Am I the only one you follow home
From the subway late at night,
As the street lights form my shadow,
Hours before the morning light?

My briefcase, though it’s leather
Is empty. And it’s old.
Once, long months and years ago
It may have carried gold,

But I’ve thrown it all away
As I’ve gambled ‘way my soul,
You are stalking just a shadow man;
I cannot make you whole.

I can tell you stories,
Some are lies and some are true
I’ve no intent of malice,
It’s just a thing that poets do.

Turn an ordinary circumstance
Into song for all to read,
Sometimes the song cuts close to home
Causes heart to ache or bleed.

When a poem causes reader tears
The poet also cries,
For the pain that wounds the reader’s heart
Is real in poet’s eyes.
Phil Lindsey  5/28/15

Stranger things have happened
Than what you’re about to hear
So I swear that this is all the truth
And it happened close by here
A young girl lost her way one night
She was working midnight shift
When a stranger saw her wandering
And he offered her a lift.
She was trusting and she climbed right in
To the black sedan he drove.
He asked where she was headed
She replied, “To Shelter Grove.”
The driver said, “I’ll take you there.
Just tell me where to go.”
She said, “Around the corner, there’s a hidden drive,
You’ll want to take it slow.
There’s a gate, but it will open, and
A clearing just ahead.
There’s a gravestone with your name on it.
I’m afraid, Sir, you are dead.”

The driver turned and stared at her
She stared back with evil grin
He was terrified but didn’t know
The danger he was in.
He reached out to grab her slender arm
But he closed his fist on air
Somehow she had vanished
She simply wasn’t there.
Now his heart was pounding loudly
He could hardly drive the car,
He used his phone to call his wife who said,
“We’re all wondering where you are!
You see your brother called an hour ago
Your father passed today
They said that he was sleeping when
The angels carried him away.
Your family signed the papers, and
He’s at the funeral home
I never heard of it before,
Some place called Shelter Grove.”

That night I had an awful dream
The wandering girl’s to blame,
She said, “I was sent to take your father,
But I mixed up the name.”  
Phil Lindsey  6/5/15

Skillful poet still in shock
He / She suffered writer’s block
PwL 6/5/15

Sleep, my friend, and dream of youth and glory days,
when the heat of sun in summer burned a hole through clouds and haze,
and we focused on the present, for the past was gone and done,
and we waited, for the balance of our lives had not begun.

Wake, my friend, and see the living all around, for your
family and your friends are most surely gathered ‘round to
hold your hand, and whisper words of hope and faith and prayer, and
know that God is listening, and know that God is there.

Cry, my friend, for tears, like rain, will help to cleanse the soul.
Understand He has a purpose, understand He has a goal,
and even though it isn’t fair, He is with you every hour
so thank Him for your blessings, and rejoice in Heaven’s power.

Sing, my friend, with angels, when the pain of life is gone,
and your family and your friends are left on earth to carry on,
but only for a second, then they will be with you again,
for life on earth is fleeting, eternal life will never end.
Phil Lindsey 8/4/17

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.

Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Paths of cratered concrete, cracked
By morning frost and midnight freeze,
Wimpy weeds grow through the fissures.
Children fall and skin their knees.

Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Canvas for a budding Rembrandt,
Using colored chalk as paint,
Drawing flow’rs, and stick-man family,
Curbing not her young restraint.

Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Adults dare not let loose the leash,
As they exercise their dogs, and ease their own stress,
Must carry bags and tiny shovels,
To clear the concrete of the mess.

Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Scooters, skateboards, wagons, bikes,
Off the path, then on again
While yielding the right-of-way
To lovers walking hand in hand.

Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Collecting children at the corner,
A guard, with yellow vest and sign,
Moses parts the sea of traffic,
Cautiously keeps kids in line.

Through front yards, across drive-ways,
Toward bus stops, stores and schools,
Gathering mown grass, autumn leaves, and winter snow.
There are poems in small town sidewalks,
Imagination on the go.
Phil Lindsey 1/11/17

Small town sounds
Unlocked doors
Not that many cars.
Main Street grocery store
Nickel candy bars.
Church Street,
“Sunday shoes”,
Parents stood outside and smoked,
Kids caught with cigarettes
Would have allowances revoked.
Corn Growers
Push mowers
Friday football games.
Everybody, Everywhere,
Knew everybody’s name.
Summer shouts
Paper routes
Cub Scouts once a week
Boys and girls in sixth grade
Dancing cheek to cheek.
No shirts
Blue jeans
Walking through the beans
Witches, ghosts and scary things
Every Halloween
Greased pigs
Little League
Swimming lessons in the lake
Talking back to teachers
Was a BIG mistake!
Teachers had hard paddles that
They were not afraid to use
Parents told them,
“Go ahead.”
And they did not refuse.
Bicycles everywhere
Pocket knives
Truth or Dare
Water balloons,
Kids Cartoons
Fishing in the creek
Not it
Gravel pit
Games of Hide and Seek
Bible School
Golden Rule
Jesus Loved Me This I Know
Several generations
Watching children grow.
Laying on a blanket
Watching shooting stars
Teachers went two towns away
When they went to bars.
Home grown tomatoes
Juicy burgers nice and thick
Eating home-made ice cream
Until all of us were sick.
Nine o’clock bedtimes
The nights were very still
I still hear the small town sounds
I guess I always will.
PwL 5/5/15

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

The Man in the Moon will be leavin’ soon
Officially, he retired.
But Polaris and some other stars
Are saying he got fired
The Man in the Moon would never leave
Of his own volition.
Management, cutting back on costs,
Is phasing out his position.

His quarterly reviews have not been going very well,
They say he isn’t any good with change.
When he gives his full attention, he seems to do ok,
But lately he’s been acting kind of strange,
His bosses claim he sleeps all day.
And on cloudy nights, he stays away,
(It’d be age discrimination if they said he’s getting old)
So they say that he won’t listen and won’t do as he is told.
They say because he has seniority,
That he resents authority,
Won’t show his new boss how the job is done,
And in their final summary, out of ten, they gave him three,
Said that he doesn’t hold a candle to the sun.

But those of us who know his work
Know he would never, ever shirk
Responsibility, or jobs that must be done -
At night when he works overtime,
Countless souls look up to him, but
At night they’ll never, ever, see the sun.

If The Man in the Moon is told to leave
Our lives will be amiss,
So I took a poet’s initiative
To make management a list:

Reasons Not to Fire the Man in the Moon
Who will watch young lovers kiss?
Who will push and pull the tides?
Who will occupy the space
Where The Man in the Moon resides?
Who will tell the farmer when it’s time to plant his field?
Who will lead the eclipse when the sun needs lunar shield?
Who will be the subject of songs and nursery rhymes?
Who will notify the werewolf when it’s his changin’ time?
Who will calm the sailors after stormy nights at sea?
Who will make a silhouette of an owl in the tree?
Who will light the children’s path each All Hallows’ Eve?
Who would raise vampires from their coffins
Were The Man in the Moon to leave?

I ask these questions with a plea
Knowing that, if it were up to me
And I had the power to blunt the cutter’s knife,
We’d leave the Earth and Heavens as they’ve been for all these years,
And The Man in the Moon would have his job for life.
PwL  5/24/15w

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

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’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

A poet, an artist, (with little restraint)
Penciled words on his canvas, saw no use for paint,
Crafted words into pictures; Visions out loud.
Of most of his work, was exceedingly proud.
Unfettered, unbounded, his huge canvas at wait
He brandished his pencil and began to create.
Desiring a masterpiece, appealing to all
Pride prompted his excess, preceded his fall
Trapped in a vortex, surrounded by words,
Shared them with others to see if they heard.

The public was skeptic, and reflected the same
His confidence shattered; His ability shamed
He had written with passion, as if possessed
But the silence of critics left him redressed.
“Who is it says everyone cannot be pleased?
Off with their heads!  Get them down on their knees!”
He drew a sharp sword, surrendered a laugh,
Sliced his canvas to shreds, cut his pencil in half.
“I’ve heard your silence, the first version *****”
Sharpened his pencil, wrote ‘Surrounded Redux. ’

PwL 4/20/15

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.

The Street
An accountant went to work one day
Passed a beggar on the street
“Hey buddy, can you spare some change,
     I need a bite to eat.”
The accountant took a dollar out;
Pushed it toward the man
“You know, Bud, you should get a job
Do you have some kind of plan?
I see you here each morning,
Watching while I go to work.
Asking strangers for their extra change -
Man, are you a ****!”

The beggar gave the dollar back,
“You can keep the buck.
I watch people for a living
Some are kind, and some just ****.
I record all their reactions
And I’m going to write a book
You’re in Chapter Four, I think:
‘Those who took a second look.’
Chapter One? Those people pass me by
And look the other way.
Pretending they can’t see me,
Not hearing what I say.
Chapter Two is full of angry folks
Who stare like I’m diseased,
One of them once spit at me –
He missed though; I was pleased.
Some people give me money
Covert, so others do not see
Like I’m a change jar on the dresser -
They’re in Chapter Three.
But Chapter Four, my favorite,
Is the one that you’ll be in.
You gave me grief for sittin’ here
But you did it with a grin.
And you reached into your wallet
Though I suspect you had some change,
And TALKED to me a minute
THAT’s the part that’s really STRANGE!”

“Only one in out of a hundred
Will spend a minute of their time
And add some conversation
To their nickel or their dime
To ask what brought me to this street
Or where I’m going next.
Most engrossed in mobile cell phones;
Talking;  Sending text
To others who are just like them
Scurrying to work
Too rushed to spend a minute
With the jobless beggar ****.”

“So when a person such as you
Stops to give me time of day
I know he’s worth a listen to,
I want to hear what he might say.
And if you can spare a bit more time
Let’s get some coffee down the street.
You can keep your dollar,
It’s going to be my treat.”

The Coffee Shop
They sat at a corner table
And ordered two - both black
And the beggar started talking
When the waitress turned her back.

“I’m an author and a poet
My office is the street
I find poems, verse and stories
In everyone I meet.
And I sense you have a story
It’s my intent to find it out.
So tell me Mr. Business Man,
What are you about?”

The Accountant’s Story
The coffees came, he took a sip
Eyed the poet with a smile,
“Will you please pass the sugar?
This might take awhile.
I’m a professional accountant
I do audit work and tax,
And now, it’s after April
I have a few days to relax.
I went to college at a big name school
Then I passed the CPA,
Was recruited by a couple firms,
I started right away.
Been doing this for twenty years.
Senior partner after ten –“

And the poet interrupted,
“Would you do it all again?”

“I have a wife, two kids, and I'm a member
At a real exclusive club
A standing weekly tee time
(Sometimes I have to get a sub)
Because I often work on weekends
So I don’t get far behind
And it’s quiet in the office
But the wife and kids don’t mind …….”

The accountant’s voice then trailed off
As he stared down at his cup,
Stirring sugar round and round.
“That about sums it up.”

“But I asked you if you had the chance
Would you do it all again?
I kind of get the feeling
That your keeping something in.
I kind of get the feeling
There’s something missing in your life
With your country club and tee times
With your two kids and your wife.
And your audits and your taxes
And the partnership you’re in
Now go back to your Big Name School
Start the story over again.”

Accountant’s Story Two
“I was gonna be a teacher
And probably a coach
I thought that kids could learn from me
If I took the right approach.
And then a guidance counselor
Stopped me in the hall
Hey Bud, What will you study
When you enter college in the fall?
“I said, ‘I guess I’ll be a teacher.’
He replied, ‘The Hell with that
You’re smart, and very good at math –
Accounting’s where it’s at,
They make a lot more money
Than a teacher ever will
You should be an accountant
You should use your skill.’ “
“At the time I thought it made good sense
I was very good in math
So I took accounting courses
And have continued down that path.
That is it.  My story.  How I got right here today.
I’ve made a lot of money
More than you I dare to say.
So tell me Beggar / Poet
Do you make enough to eat?
Where do you go in winter
When its freezing on the street?

Second Cup
They called the waitress over
And ordered two more Joes
The Poet said, “It’s my turn
Here’s how my story goes.”

The Poet’s Story
I’m an author and a poet
And I live right down the street
Like I told you I get stories
From the people that I meet.
As for making money
I’ve published once or twice
Pays the condo rent and buys me food
The royalties are nice.
But writing is a hobby
I went to college just like you
But I lost it when I got there
Had no clue what I should do
So I drank and took a lot of drugs
Partied way more than I should
Till a teacher took me to the side
And said, ‘Buddy it’s all good.”
Get it out.  Learn lessons. And then go out and teach.
You never know who you can help.
Or the people you can reach.’
So when it's cold here on the street
The winter winds are biting
I’m at an inner city school
I teach creative writing.
And the money people like you give?
I pick out kids that don’t have much
Add a couple twenties of my own
So I don't get out of touch.
I take them shopping after school
And I buy them school supplies.
I figure ends support the means,
And forgive my 'beggar'  lies.

The End
Now you have both their stories,
And I might have let mine slip.
The accountant paid for coffee.
The poet left the tip.

PwL  4/7/15

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

Agnes McDuff collected strange stuff,
Or so the story goes:

There were old pots and pans,
String, rubber bands,
Boxes and boxes of clothes,
Newspapers, plates,
Books stored in crates,
And candlesticks lined up in rows.
Some mason jars,
Toy trucks and cars,
A model train with a whistle that blows,
Needles and spools,
All kinds of tools,
And shoes with holes in the toes.

There were tables and chairs,
Bookends in pairs,
A grandfather clock that was broke,
An old brass spittoon,
Some Sunday cartoons,
And a bicycle mssing a spoke.
Four or five hundred old wooden blocks,
Twenty-three pair of grey woolen socks,
A Christmas Edition bottle of Coke,
A board game missing directions,
A bat, a ball, a catcher’s mitt, two baseball card collections,
And a great big rusty tuba.  What a joke!

There was other stuff, but you’ve heard enough;
About what was stored in
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.

Part 2
Agnes’ attic was quite special
But not for the things it contained
But for how she had to get there
Please let me explain!

Agnes had a one-story house
A flight of stairs led to the attic.
When she opened up the door,
The light came on automatic.

It opened to a hallway
Where there was another door
Another light, another hall, and more stairs, which
Led back down to the first floor!

Where an elevator waited
To take her up again?
But it had just one button
And it was numbered “10”.

When she pushed it, it was crazy
The elevator turned upon its side,
Grew wheels and drove out on the street
For an amazing ride!

Across a long suspension bridge,
Then underneath a tunnel,
And then it went around and round
Like circling down a funnel!

It dropped upon a railroad track
Hooked onto the caboose
And followed to the roundhouse
Where it finally broke loose.

It turned around a couple times
And ran out toward the street
The elevator ran, of course
Because it had grown two feet!

It ran across an avenue,
Around a lake, and through a park
And then through another tunnel
Where it was very dark.

A mile later it emerged,
At Agnes’ house, by her front door!
The elevator walked inside,
And was on the second floor!!

So that’s how Agnes reached her attic,
Perhaps someday you’ll go there too,
Push the elevator button,
And you’ll find my story’s true!

Part 3
Agnes stood there in her attic
And smiled at all her stuff
That almost ends the story of
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.

But Agnes’ story can never end
Her smile turned to a frown,
Because you see poor Agnes
Forgot how to get back down!!
PwL  May 1, 2015

Part 4*
When we last left poor Agnes
In her attic all alone
She couldn’t find her way back down,
And she had no telephone.
No light switch and no stairway
She couldn’t find the hall
The elevator disappeared
(It had sunk into the floor)
And to make her situation worse,
She couldn’t find the door!

But Agnes McDuff was pretty tough;
She didn’t mess around
She thought of stuff that she could use
To help her get back down.

First she lit the candlesticks
So she would have some light -
For an attic with no window
Is black as darkest night.

With candlelight, she now could see;
She dumped the clothes from all the boxes,
Put the boxes on the table,
Next she stacked the wooden blocks.
She found some nails and a hammer
In her Grandma’s toolbox.
She nailed it all together
And on top she nailed the chairs
Now Agnes had a set of crazy, crooked
Homemade stairs!
Agnes went back to the toolbox,
She saw a saw was there,
She carried it very carefully
As she climbed the crazy stair.

Now you might have a feeling
Of what she was going to do
Yes, she climbed up to the ceiling, and
Used the saw to cut right through!

She climbed back down and looked around
Found the rubber bands and string
Added several woolen socks
And made a giant sling!

She rummaged through the dumped out clothes
Found a wedding dress and suit
And with the needle and the spool of thread
Made a great big parachute!

She hooked the parachute to the bicycle
(The one without a spoke)
And tied the back wheel to the tuba
And that was NOT a joke.

The tuba was quite heavy
So it kept the bike at rest
Once again climbed up the crazy stair
And performed the final test.

She nailed both ends of the slingshot
Around the opening she’d sawn
Hooked the sling around the bicycle
Moved the stair, and then got on.

Somehow the clock was working!
It was ringing Three, Two, One
And just as Agnes cut the tie she thought
Boy! This could be FUN!

The slingshot worked!*
Shot Agnes out, on the bike, way up into the sky,
And she looked around in wonder thought,
Boy!  I’ve never been this high!

She went up a mile or so
Before she dared look down
She saw the long suspension bridge
And the other parts of town.
She saw the entrance to the tunnel
(The rest was under ground)
She saw the roundhouse and the avenue
The park and then the lake
Finally, she saw her house
There was no mistake!

So she deployed the parachute
And gently she descended
And this is where the story
Of Agnes Attic should have ended.

She walked up to the doorway
Turned the handle, now you see?
The door was locked from the inside,
Agnes McDuff forgot the key!
PwL  May 4, 2015

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

Rumor is you break a mirror
Get seven years bad luck,
Well, I ain’t much on rumors,
It’s on the truth I’m stuck.

I looked into the mirror today
What I saw filled me with dread
Some old guy with his hair all gray
Looked like he should be dead.

Age spots covered up his face
There were wrinkles ‘round his eyes
I thought it was a **** disgrace
Or a Halloween disguise.

His cheeks were rough with three days growth
A spot of drool was on his chin
I was pretty shocked, I guess, but not too loath
To look again.

This time I looked inside of me
To the things the mirror won’t show.
To a mind still clear with memories
And a heart where love still grows.

My soul needs some forgivin’
Hell, I’ve lived o’er eighty years
Mistakes made just from livin’
Most washed clean with tears.

I’m thinking that my mirror lied
Maybe it’s already broke,
And the reflection of my outside
Is just a ghastly joke.

Because the inside me is still a boy
Having fun most every day
Living life that’s always filled with joy,
I’m gonna throw that mirror away.
PwL  5/18/15

“I’m all in,” the gambler grinned, and
Pushed his chips toward the center of the table.
“Been playin’ hard, finally pulled the card,
You can call if you are able.
It’s all or nothing, - final ***.
Call me.  Show me what you got.

C’mon Man, you hesitatin’ ?
Take your time, I’ll sit here waitin’.


C’mon MAN, you think I’m BLUFFIN’?
Think I’m sittin’ here with NOTHIN’?


C’MON MAN!  Let’s GET THIS DONE!
DON’T ACT LIKE YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE
WITH MORE THAN POKER ON THE LINE
FOLD or CALL ME, EITHER’s FINE!

But don’t just sit and stare at me,
And make your judgement silently
I need to win.  I want it all,
For God’s sake, Man, please fold or call


The silent Man called.  

“Son,
Life’s a gamble and she’s dealt us all some bitter hands.
So when you been ‘round long as me
You begin to understand
Don’t matter if you win this time
Eventually you’ll lose
The stakes keep getting bigger, and
Some day you’ll have to choose
Between losin’ everything you got
And keepin’ something dear
And another thing I’ll wager, Son, that you don’t want to hear
Is while the *** keeps getting bigger, the odds get longer too
Sometime soon old lady luck will turn her back on you.”

The Silent Man laid his cards on the table.

“Each day’s a brand new poker hand
Some you win, and some you bluff,
Now you show me what YOU have,
We’ll see if it’s enough.”

PwL, March 29, 2016

All at once the music stopped;
The calliope stopped spinning.
Atop the stallions we held hands
Convinced that we were winning –
For we were in the prime of life,
We held the golden ring,
Though the music stopped, we knew
Forever we would sing.

All at once the music stopped;
The Ferris wheel stopped turning.
Atop the city looking down,
We saw that lights were burning –
For we were in the evening and,
Our lives had passed midway,
And when the music stopped we knew
That we had had our day.

All at once the music stopped;
The carnival had ended.
And we held each other tightly,
As if our lives could be suspended –
For without the music and the lights,
Past and Present blended,
Our future was but memories
That we had resurrected.

All at once the music stopped;
The night was deathly still.
Alone, and scared I trembled,
Without a prayer, without a will–
For my life had been a carnival,
With my lover at my side,
But all alone, without my lover
I knew that I had also died.
Phil Lindsey  3/29/16

Oh, to sleep the sleep of youth;
Peaceful dreams, and blissful truth
When every morning brings the sun,
Battles fought, and victories won!
Victory sweet, misfortune ****,
Yet those that bear a champion’s heart
Stand upright, tall, despite the end,
And humbly shake opponent's hand
Congratulations on fine play
To meet, compete another day
Hope the foe will others tell,
“He fought with honor, he played well.”

Oh, how the aging fight with sleep;
Nightmares, abject fears run deep
That life on earth is almost done,
Morning might not bring the sun.
Once strong, the warrior now is frail
In the final battle death prevails,
Though none but God has kept the score
The champion longs for one quest more
Long life results in necessity
To replace lost skills with strategy
We long to hear, at final bell,
“He fought with honor, he played well.”
PWL 12/25/16

The new built church was filling up
For its very first Christmas Eve.

It was finished in October
On a piece of vacant land, and
Reverend James had joined the greeters,
At its entrance shaking hands.

From seeming out of nowhere
A stranger just appeared
He was hunched a bit, and limping
With a longer gray-white beard.
His suit was black and dusty,
Like it hadn’t been used in years,
And his eyes were red and misty
Like he’d been shedding countless tears.

The Reverend grabbed his hand and said,
“Welcome!  Welcome, come right in!!
You’re a stranger to these parts I guess,
But we’re mighty glad you came.
And if it’s all the same to you,
We’d like to know your name.”

“Name’s Everett.  Everett Kent,” he said.
“Been alookin’ for this church.
Knowed some day you’d build it here.
Now I can end my search.”

The stranger loosed the Reverend’s grip,
Limped in and settled down,
At the far left end of the far back pew;
Where no one was around.

He sat through prayers and sermon,
Through a couple hymns as well
And when they got to ‘Silent Night’
He appeared to know it well.  
Silently, he closed his eyes,
The words were his release
“Round yon ******, Mother and Child,”
“Sleep in Heavenly Peace.”
“Sleep in Heavenly Peace.”

As the song went to the second verse,
The bearded stranger, dressed in black
Vanished into silent night,
Not once looking back.

The next day - Christmas Morning,
The ushers found a curious thing
A parchment in the offering plate
******* with a string.
When they untied the string they found
Much to their surprise,
A stack of Hundred Dollar bills
Of a slightly larger size.
They were from a different era,
Was this some kind of a joke?
A heartless cruel trick to play
At the expense of righteous folk.

On the inside of the parchment
In an antique writing style
Was a poem, (or a riddle?)
Now they couldn’t help but smile.

“One Thousand for the Father,
Two Thousand for His Son.
Three Thousand for the men who followed on the run.
Four Thousand for Mother Mary, who must have suffered most,
Five Thousand in remembrance of the wandering Holy Ghost.
That leaves nothing for the Devil
Though he’d like to claim it all.
May it help to pay the mortgage
On the church you built this fall.
Fifteen thousand dollars here,
Count it if you want –
I’ve had it for safe-keepin’
‘Twas much safer than a vault.”

The Reverend and the Deacons counted 15 Grand
The Reverend and the Deacons, together made a plan
Early the next morning of the very next business day,
They found a numismatist
To see what he would say.

He said,
“As currency it’s worthless
But a collector will pay well
These notes are rare and valuable
As far as I can tell.
You’ll get thirty / forty times the face
Look at the condition that they’re in!!
Where the Hell did they come from?”
And, where the Hell have they been?”

Reverend James contradicted
Remembering Everett Kent,
“Sir, it wasn’t Hell they’ve come from.
These notes were Heaven sent.
A stranger came on Christmas Eve
And left them on the pew.
All we did was count them,
And bring them straight to you.”

On the way home, Reverend James perplexed
Reviewed the strange events
Prayed that God would grant him wisdom
So he’d know what to do next
Surely the stranger didn’t know
The value of the notes
He mentioned only Fifteen Thousand
In the poem that he wrote.

A lawyer was a member
Of the Richland Christian Church
So Reverend James implored him
To do a legal search
He vowed to find the stranger Kent
To make known the real worth,
And inform him of the value
Of the bills he left at church.

Three days later, four o’clock
The Reverend heard a frantic knock
“I’ve found something that’ll interest you,
From 23 December, Eighteen Seven Two.


Richland Herald, December 31, 1872
The First National Bank of Richland was robbed last week, on December 23rd, by a man who, holding the tellers at bay with a pistol, demanded that they surrender all the money in the vault, without protest so that none would be harmed.  The thief escaped on horseback, though the Sheriff’s department was duly informed, and the Sheriff and two newly appointed deputies immediately gave chase.

On or about 4 pm the following day, a man matching the thief’s description was said to have been seen at the stage stop, run by Everett Kent, and his wife Mary, two fine people known about these parts for their hospitality and generosity.  As a testament to this fact, an itinerant preacher (known only as Reverend Jim) had been staying at the house for some time and conducting meetings at the stop whenever possible.  It should be mentioned as well that the Kent’s have a young son David, who, taking a liking to the eloquent Reverend Jim, had decided to also preach the Gospel and had taken the his first steps in that Almighty Direction.

As the posse surrounded the house, the thief, perhaps knowing that he could not escape, endeavored to bargain his way out of the situation by taking hostages and thereby securing his own safety.  Everett Kent, pleading for some shred of decency from the villain, asked that his wife and child and Reverend Jim be released, and that he, alone would serve in that capacity.  The thief relented (maybe the only time in his villainous life that he concluded a decent act.)  Mary and David ran from the building and were quickly placed out of harm’s way by the sheriff and his men.

What happened next will never be known to any but those in the building and the Lord God Himself.  What is known, is that yelling and commotion came from the house, and three shots were fired.  Perhaps upon being released, instead of removing himself to safety, Reverend Jim, attacked the villain and a scuffle ensued.  In the process, a kerosene lamp was broken, and the building caught fire.  Although Mary implored the sheriff to rescue her husband who had been tied to a chair, the Sheriff exercising judgment, if not valor, determined that it was already too late.

The thief (identity forever unknown), the valiant Reverend Jim and the pious and unfortunate Everett Kent all perished in the fire.  When the house had burned to the ground and the bodies could be examined, it was determined that the thief was shot through the heart and Reverend Jim also had received a mortal wound.  Everett Kent, though tied to a chair, had somehow procured a bullet wound to his right leg.

The spoils of the robbery, according to the First National Bank, $15,000 in uncirculated $100 bank notes, were never found, and presumed burned to ashes in the fire.

Reverend James felt faint
His knees and legs were weak
He sat down at his desk, and
Heard the lawyer speak.

Reverend James, there’s something more
That you have a right to know.
The stage stop never was rebuilt.
The widow moved away
And raised her son in another town
Very far away.

The son became a preacher
And later changed his name
In honor of the Reverend Jim,
Called himself David James.

You are David’s GG Grandson
You descend from Everett too.
The land where you just built the church?
Left so long ago to you?
Was once the home of Everett Kent
I found that in my search.
The widow left it to her son
And he thus passed it down.
And now you’ve built your brand new church
On that very ground.

You’ll never find the stranger
The notes are yours to spend
And the Christmas Eve Tale of Everett Kent
Has finally reached its end.

“One Thousand for the Father,
Two Thousand for His Son.
Three Thousand for the men who followed on the run.
Four Thousand for Mother Mary, who must have suffered most,
Five Thousand in remembrance of the wandering Holy Ghost.
That leaves nothing for the Devil
Though he’d like to claim it all.
May it help to pay the mortgage
On the church you built this fall.
Fifteen thousand dollars here,
Count it if you want –
I’ve had it for safe-keepin’
‘Twas much safer than a vault.”
Reverend David James III,  recounted to Philip W. Lindsey on 4/13/2015

The Devil went down to Georgia,
He knew right where he wanted to go,
He’d built a golf course down in Hades, and
He needed a Head Pro.
So he snuck in to Augusta,
Up to the practice tee,
A guy was hittin’ range ***** there
Just as far as you could see.
The Devil said, “Hey Mister,
You want to have a game?
I bet that I can beat you, and
I don’t even know your name.”
The guy said, “My name’s Johnny,
But they call me ‘Long John’
Never met a bet or bottle
That I would back down on.
Guess you could say that some of them
Might have been mistakes,
But, Hell, this life’s for livin’,
So Devil, what’s the stakes?”
The Devil smiled, and said, “Hey, John,
Looks like you’re pretty good,
But that driver you are pounding
Is an old one made of wood,
So if you win, you get this golden driver you can sell,
But if you lose I take your sorry *** straight down to Hell.”

Johnny swing your driver hard,
The Devil’s here in town,
You have a bet you might regret,
But there’s no backin’ down,
If you win, you get a golden driver you can sell,
But if you lose you’re gonna be a golf pro down in Hell!

So they threw a tee up in the air,
It pointed straight at John,
He said, “I guess that means I’m up”,
And the Devil said, “Game on!”
Long John teed his ball up, then asked,
“So, Devil, what’s the game?  
We playing match or medal?
To me it’s all the same.”
By now a crowd had gathered ‘round, and
They all held their breath,
So everyone was quiet when,
The Devil hissed, “Sudden Death;
First one of us to win a hole,
Wins the bet as well,
Better save the ice from your last drink,
Cuz, it’s mighty hot in Hell!”
Long John said, “That’s fine with me,
We got the stakes, we got the bet”,
Then he pulled his driver from the bag, and
Lit a cigarette,
He hit a rocket down the fairway
With a mighty long John swing,
Blew some smoke the Devil’s way,
And said, “Just one more thing,
I’ve won a bunch of money, and I’ve lost a bunch as well,
If I should lose to you today we’ll have a rematch down in Hell.”

Johnny swing your driver hard,
The Devil’s here in town,
You have a bet you might regret,
But there’s no backin’ down,
If you win, you get a golden driver you can sell,
But if you lose you’re gonna be a golf pro down in Hell!

The Devil looked amused and asked,
“Is that all you got?”
Took a six iron from his golf bag
And matched John’s giant shot.
“You have a disadvantage, John,
‘Cuz you play by the rules,
Bettin’ with the Devil
Is a game for mortal fools
I have a few tricks in my bag,
I’ll use’em if need be.
And Long John, on that first par four,
I think we both made three.”
On the next hole, John said, “You go first,
I’m gonna have a smoke”,
Took a bottle from his golf bag,
Mixed a Jack and Coke,
The Devil took his magic six, hit his ball
Right towards a tree; It bounced left,
Skipped across a stream, and
Landed on the green.
Long John watched with interest,
But he didn’t seem concerned,
Said, “If you play with matches,
You’re liable to get burned.”
He hit his old wood driver, 300 yards and watched it role,
Down the fairway, right onto the green, and straight into the hole!

Johnny swing your driver hard,
The Devil’s here in town,
You have a bet you might regret,
But there’s no backin’ down,
If you win, you get a golden driver you can sell,
But if you lose you’re gonna be a golf pro down in Hell!

The Devil handed John the driver,
‘Cuz he knew that he’d been beat,
And John said, “Man I’m hungry,
Let’s grab a bite to eat.
There’s a steak place down the road,
Not too far from here,
You look like you could use a drink,
So I’ll buy you a beer!
You hit that six iron pretty well,
I’ll give you a hand,
But I told you once you *******,
This is Long John Land!”

Johnny swing your driver hard,
The Devil’s here in town,
You have a bet you might regret,
But there’s no backin’ down,
If you win, you get a golden driver you can sell,
But if you lose you’re gonna be a golf pro down in Hell!

How should we mourn our Mother?
Who gave us Life and Love and Dreams.
How do we tell the world we love her?
Tears are not enough, it seems.
Should we sing a song of tribute?
Build a monument of stone?
Or find a quiet corner, and
Meditate alone?

We remember words of comfort.
When we needed her the most.
We remember cheerful laughter,
Should we then raise a toast?
To Her Life, Her Love, Her Memory!
For Memories never die.
Remember, though, when we’re alone
That it’s ok to cry.

Mom's journey ended early
And we must stay and grieve.
Days and weeks pass slowly
When our friends and family leave,
Memories, often blurry,
Run together like the weeks
And can’t repel the sadness
Or give the solace that we seek.

But though we mourn her passing
In unique and private ways,
We must remember what she taught us,
And how she lived her days
With humor, grace, and patience,
With love for family, and friends.
We must pass it forward always
Our gift to her, that never ends.

pwl 12/14

In a rundown house,
On the edge of town
Where the grass is overgrown
The door’s unlocked and open,
The windows all are broke.
It’s been exactly twenty years
Since the chimney last saw smoke.

People pass by without seeing it.
Because it sits back off the road.
But when I pass by, I begin to cry.
It has a story seldom told.

Two nineteen year olds
Once planned their life
In that old abandon house.
She would bring a blanket.
He would bring the wine
They would dream about their future
Plan how they’d spend their time
Traveling to Places
Before they settled down
To raise their perfect family
In a house at the edge of town.

She would spread the blanket
He would build a fire
And long before the wine was gone
They would give in to desire
Passionate and furious
Holding on too tight
As if the dreams they shared
Were slipping
Off into the night.
As if the plans they made were
Smoke
From the fire in the room
Rising out the chimney
Into the afternoon,
Blown away by breezes,
Hidden by the clouds.
Invisible like secret fears
Never voiced aloud.

Spring turned into summer
Winter followed fall -
They began to meet less frequently
Then they didn’t meet at all.
The fire and the passion gone
The room now cold and bare,
The house at the edge of town
Unused,
But still standing there.

The memories of our teenage love
Were strong – We thought that we should meet
Once again in the vacant house set back from the street.
We set a date, but I was late
I almost didn’t go.
I sensed we were pretending;
Trying to return
Passion to a fireplace
Where the fire would not burn.

Eventually I pushed the door
And walked into the room
The fireplace had embers
As if it had burned awhile,
A bottle mostly empty
Had been thrown against the wall.
The blanket laid out smoothly,
But that was not quite all.
I saw my former lover
On the blanket dead and cold
With a note scrolled out in cursive
“I guess I should have known”
“You’re not here.  The fire’s gone. I have no need to live.
I hope that you’ll be happy -
When you finally come around
To the place we shared our love and dreams,
The house at the edge of town."

That’s the tragic story
And the reason for my tears;
The house on the edge of town
Still stands, even after all these years.
PwL  4/11/15

The keeper of illumination
Aye, the keeper of the light
Safety first, his fascination
Dusk to evening through the night.

Aye, the keeper of the light,
Every season, every day
Dusk to evening, through the night
He tends the beacon, shows the way.

Every season, every day
Climbs thirteen flights of thirteen stairs
He tends the beacon, shows the way
The Fresnel lantern he prepares.

Climbs thirteen flights of thirteen stairs
Skyward, toward the landing high
The Fresnel lantern he prepares
Lighthouse beacon must not die.

Skyward, toward the landing high
Strike the match, produce the spark
Lighthouse beacon must not die.
Guides ships safely through the dark.

Strike the match, produce the spark
Safety first, his fascination
Guides ships safely through the dark
The keeper of illumination.
Phil Lindsey 6/25/15

Soon, the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And maybe in your dreams discover
Words and lines to keep.

For the darkness is a tunnel
Straight to Heaven’s door,
There a thousand poets wait for you -
A thousand gone before,
Before their works were finished,
Before their jobs were through
Now creation of the masterpiece
Is solely up to you.

Hear their spirit, poet!
Listen very close.
You’ve been chosen as the protégé
But do not brag or boast
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like hell-fire, burns you up,
Leaves you thirsting for some water
And reaching for a cup,
That crumbles when you grab it.
While the water turns to dust,
But still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.

Feel their breath, oh poet!
Cool upon your skin,
Though sweat and perspiration
Reveal the torment trapped within.
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like a pen that’s out of ink,
Leaves you reaching for a pencil,
And needing time to think,
But both ends are erasers
Now your passion turned to lust
So still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.

For the darkness is a tunnel
A tunnel straight to Hell
There a thousand poets wait for you -
At a long abandoned well,
Before their works were finished,
The waters all ran dry
There will be no masterpiece
If all the poets die.

Shh, soon the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And a thousand poets after you
Will search for words and lines to keep.
Phil Lindsey 6/9/15

Poet:  Good Morning Darling!  Can you hear the birds?  The sun is creeping up, too beautiful for words!

Accountant:  It’s 54 degrees with a high of 72 predicted.  You won’t need a coat.

Poet: Ah, the warmth of afternoon sun, won’t our picnic today be fun?

Accountant:  We should leave by 10:30.  I have to get gas.  Have you packed our lunch?

Poet:  I have chicken salad for our lunch, potato chips to add some crunch, I baked the cookies that you liked last time, and bought a bottle of your favorite wine!

Accountant:  I set the GPS.  We should get there right at 11:15.  Do you have a blanket?

Poet:  Yes, a blanket to lay upon the ground, at the edge of the woods that we once found, while lost upon a country road, turned the fortune of our day around!

Accountant:  I charged my cell phone and the ball game starts at 1:20.   A win puts us in first place.  Are you sure we’ll have cell reception?

Poet: Ah, but I will read you poetry about the love I have for thee, leave the city’s crowds and noise behind, to all else but ourselves be blind.

Accountant:  Honey, why are you talking like that?

Poet:  I just joined Hello Poetry, now all the world’s a verse to me, to read and share with HP friends, ecstatic when a poem trends!

Accountant: Yeah, is that what you showed me the other day?  Looked to me like you guys all ‘like’ each other’s poems, and 95% of the people that read yours don’t even like them.

Poet: Really?  (holding back tears)

Accountant: That’s what I calculated.  How many of those cookies are you bringing anyway?

Poet:  I have a dozen, but I can bake more.

Accountant: Nah, 12 is plenty, and by the way, Baby, I just love your poetry, it’s filled with creativity, each word picked out is absolute, with premise that I can’t dispute, I guess one more thing I should say: I’d like it more if it would pay!
PwL May 3, 2015

The trees are standing naked
In the cold and wind and rain
The leaves, now burnt and brown and crisp
Are on the ground again
The cold rain drowns the fallen leaves
A soggy carpet stays
And darkness fills the afternoon,
Of the shortened autumn days.

The geese are almost all gone south
The rivers start to freeze
The first few winter snowflakes
Are blown by biting breeze
Frost carpets frozen morning grass
Piers from the lakes removed
Children walk to school in
Coats and scarves -  all “Mom approved.”

The witches and the pumpkins
Left from Halloween
And the turkeys from Thanksgiving
Morph into Manger scenes
Stores advertise the Holidays
Special sales for One and All
As just before the winter comes
The Other Face of Fall.
Phil Lindsey 11/9/15

‘Twas the start of March Madness,
And all through the land,
People sat by the TV
With pencils in hand.

The committee had chosen the teams with great care
And everyone hoped their Alma Mater was there.
The teams were selected and placed into regions
With top seeds rewarded for having good seasons.

Badger fans from Wisconsin were
All dressed in Red
With Final Four visions
Dancing  ‘round in their heads.

Kentucky fans claimed
(As they most always do)
The Championship would go
To their Wildcats in blue.

The Blue Devils from Durham
Were also quite hot
And the Duke fans were certain
They would win the top spot.

‘Nova fans were excited; their hopes are alive!
Remember the upset?  1985
An 8-seed back then, this year they're a One!
Villanova Wildcat fans are sure to have fun! xxxxxxx already done.

Now the ‘play-ins’ are over.
But I’m not sure who won
Doesn't matter, the winner
Will be trounced by a One.

I, with cold beer and my bracket,
Settle down in a chair
I’ve picked all the games
Now I’ll see how they fare.

Now Badgers, Now Boilers,
Now Hawkeyes and Bucks,
On Hoosiers, On Hoyas,
On Shockers, and Ducks
Go Flyers, Go Sooners, Come On Musketeers!
Go Cardinals, Go Cowboys….   Gonna need some more beers.

Then all of a sudden arose such a clatter
On the tube Sir Charles was starting to chatter.
“I’m the Round Mound of Rebound, - there’s no one like me!”
“Watch all my commercials, NCAA on TV!”

From Thursday through Sunday
On to Sweet Sixteen,
Elite Eight, Final Four and
All the games in between.
The nation is watching from East Coast to West
Which of the 60+ teams will be best.
With OTs and upsets and a blowout or two,
I am glued to the TV and
I’ll bet so are you.

I closed my eyes for a second, and then fell asleep

But was quickly awakened by my doorbell's loud beep,

And what, to my wondering eyes should appear?

But Sir Charles himself;
 And he asks for a beer!

"I'm not a role model, I just like to dunk.

I took a look at your bracket, and
Most all your picks stunk!"
I turned to ask him to fix it,
But he'd disappeared.
Yes, Sir Charles was gone,

And so was my beer!

Now my bracket is busted,
I’m all out of beer
Merry Madness to all,
I will see you next year!

"A Visit from St. Nicholas", also known as "The Night Before Christmas" and " ' Twas the Night Before Christmas" from its first line, is a poem first published anonymously in 1823, and later attributed to Clement Clarke Moore, who acknowledged authorship in 1837.   from Wikipedia.

Unfortunately, Mr. Moore never had the chance to experience March Madness.  :-)

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

In a nation torn with racial strife
where killing seems a way of life
where rappers hold the people’s court
and looting is a favorite sport
where drugs and thugs, both black and white,
govern day and rule the night
seems Superman is fast asleep
as shadows o’er the addicts creep
no soap will wash away the smell
of stories we’re afraid to tell.

Truth isn’t always as it seems
judges judge, the lawyer screams
there are two sides in every fight
yet everybody “knows” what’s right
for the FacebookYouTube miracle
sends evidence empirical
across the globe at speeds of light
while the real truth stays out of sight
oft hidden by grey overcoats
of politicians gathering votes.

Words conveniently disguise
weakness clothed in pompous lies,
historical infirmities,
unsupported generalities,
privileged complicity,
intentional duplicity,
centuries of grief and pain
suffered for another’s gain
twenty score and one year more
pounding at the tiger’s door.

Unjustifiably we cringe
when the door bursts open, rent from hinge
an angry mob spills from the dark
pent-up powder keg; a spark
ignites a nation, blacks and whites
protest filled and anxious nights
sweep our nation shore to shore
conscience values cut to core
Will the bell of freedom ever ring?
“The Voice of the Unheard,” said King

As always, angry mobs subside
rise and fall just like the tide
perhaps will leave a water mark
remembrance of the now cold spark
buildings, broken glass repaired
protesters home their grievance aired
reporters and the camera crews
move on and search for other news
We, silent privileged, sit in chairs
and watch the news with vacant stares.

“The Voice of the Unheard,” said King
will the rest of us learn anything?
will any of us hear, and change?
examine values, rearrange
priorities and constitution
sincerely seek a just solution
go marching forward hand in hand
endeavoring to understand
can centuries of wrong turn right?
and win the war with peaceful might.

Will 2020 be the year that starts the revelation?
Do we have the strength and skill to cure the ill
  which permeates our nation?
Will we ever hear our anthem play
and look around and see
all men, all women standing proud
not compelled to take a knee
if hand on heart we do our part, it cannot be too late
to gather strength together
and make our nation great.

Phil Lindsey 6/10/2020

I’m the whether man, I love you;
Whether you are happy or you’re sad,
The whether man will always know
What kind of day you’ve had.

I’m the whether man, I love you;
Whether you are cold or you are hot,
I can always tell your temperature
Whether you like it or not.

I’m the whether man, I love you;
Whether it is night or day,
I’m always gonna love you whether
You choose to go or stay.

I’m the whether man, I love you;
Whether you are rich or you are poor,
Whether you are down and out,
Or good luck’s knockin’ at your door

I’m the whether man, I love you;
But whether I’m happy is up to you
Whether I’m happy depends on
Whether or not you say you love me too!
pwl  6/7/15