~

from the dock he calls her name,
now beside he grasps her rails,
deftly steps aboard her frame,
to loose her lines of mooring.

leaned o’er, he shares his secret hopes,
ocean breeze her mast is callling;
then wings are spread with hoisted ropes,
the call of ocean’s blue alluring.


he guides her through the shallow drafts,
gliding faster, hull and ballast,
like seabird’s cry on wing, her craft,
his touch responding in devotion.

she heels about now, lunging forward,
together ’cross the waves;
he, the author of this poetry,
keeps rhythm with each changing motion.


they float above the salty spray,
white sails, her wings, a swan of grace;
in fading light, ’cross waterway,
her highway now a full moon bright.

his bearing set for emerald isle,
she tacks to follow compass lines;
together tame the ocean’s wild,
in flight as one to form their rhymes.


from high atop her outstretched form,
he guides her body through the night;
shifting lines to feel the storm,
like bedsheets thrown, arched and open.

then far above this watery bed,
her canvas flows with watercolor,
of sapphire, jade and ruby red;
a sunrise o’er bejeweled ocean.


sailing on,
in stunning sight;
as one they sigh,
in heavenly flight.

~

*post script.

unwinding from the first work week of the new year and a chaotic Friday night commute, these out-of-the-blue, out-from-the-blue lines strike me as i hear strains of Chrstopher Cross crooning his 1980 classic, “Sailing”, from my dear wife's Pandora station, aptly named.  

“Well, it's not far
down to paradise,
at least it's not for me.
And if the wind is right
you can sail away,
and find tranquility.  
Oh, the canvas can do miracles,
just you wait and see.
Believe me.”

the song takes me back to a simpler time in our marriage, but sailing... this always takes me back, all the way to childhood, and a carefree state of mind.  and no wonder... for in my pre-teen years, i and my brothers helped our father build a small, eighteen foot, sailing sloop, crafted after plans he found in a Family Circle magazine.  thereafter, childhood summers were spent freshwater sailing at the foot of Fuji, sometimes alone, sometimes together.  it is no surprise that today i am most at peace on or beside the water.

~

she’s a heart that is breaking,
craquelure in life's painting;
a field full of fissures,
a clouded water cistern;
the age-darkened oils,
on a canvas fading,
where sadness and aching,
in blankets of grieving lie.

she’s discovered from whence
come her friends;
those who tell her it’s
time to bring to an end,
like it’s a cake in the oven
or one’s therapy session...
any longer and they
cannot understand why.

she is grateful for those who
give space for bereavement;
who know grief doesn’t flow
on a timer or season.
but is more like a river
that spills to the sea;
though it often flows free,
there are days it runs dry.

she has learned in her heart
there's no faucet for tears,
there’s no way to escape
her soul that’s been pierced;
from her skin to her marrow,
a-ccumulus sorrow, wears
an inescapable furrow; brings
a seasonal rain to her eye.

her only transgression
this lifelong expression,
as she yearns for the essence
of what she has lost;
to her this unbearable cost.
’tis a debt without gift,
greater pain can’t exist;
yet will bear 'til her final goodbye.

this then a grace,
like an eternal embrace;
as a sky cover parting,
an internal departing,
momentary pathway to heaven;
there may be no cure for craquelure,
no end to her pain he can find,
yet he can gift her his peace of mind.

~

*post script.

cra·que·lure
kraˈklo͝or,ˈkrakˌlo͝or/
noun- a network of fine cracks
in the paint or varnish of a painting.

this is part of a small collection of poems i have written for my wife each anniversary of her loss.  for the coming anniversary i began a meditation and reflection on pain and our aversion to it.  we have become a world uncomfortable with pain to which we have no answer;  pain that a pill or a therapy session cannot fix.  unable to know how to stop it, we fall prey to trying to either ignore it or stifle it.   yet pain is the beginning of compassion, a vital human emotion that is our answer to suffering.

~
she rises every morning,
intentioned in her mind,
to make the most of life remaining,
living forward, not behind.
blind, but only in her eyes,
she sees what others can’t,
choosing to deposit in,
a bank account, not scant.
though pained in bones, in joints
she isn't pained in thought,
she lives forward... no regrets,
not focused on, what she has not.
to her, happiness is determined,
by what you choose ahead of time;
good memories you've created for,
withdrawal in life’s wintertime;
each day a gift to be unwrapped,
and eyes awakened every morning,
to seek anew the cup of hope,
and drink in all that life will bring.

*post script.

i am not the author of this original story (see below).  i'm not even sure who this wonderful woman is (though i am sure we have all met someone who could fit this description).  as with so many stories that inspire you and i, this one inspired me to squeeze out a quick poem... and may even have shaken me from a long writing drought.  life has been crazy busy for us here and has dried out most of my creativity.  i have very much missed regular contact with each of you!  
wishing you all a wonder-full Sunday,
Steve

Springing forward this last Sunday, 
A most confusing act;
For reasons clear no longer,
Our sleep we so impact.
Bodies still adjusting,
Long after clock's re-set;
A change that's so alarming,
'Tis trickery we can't abet.
They say that we'll get over it,
Our sleep won't always lack;
But by the time we're rested,
Sadly, we'll be falling back.

.
hold my wife,

tightly please...

so she won’t *punch me

~

a sentencing phase?
not really!
it is instead
a punctuation
deliberation!
be it a period
or a comma
to his phrase,
a life gone…
so terribly wrong,
awry!
oats sewn in haste
becoming
tares of waste
for thrashing,
not for threshing!

his acts despicable,
his name
an alliteration
to us unspeakable;
the terrifying
seen as desperation,
now in need of
great deliberation.
his end undertaken
by those he counted
once as peers,
these twelve poor souls,
now gods
with feet of clay;
his determined fate
to destine and ordain.

is any among
these twelve a peer
to the one
so driven
to destruction?
undeserving of
an exclamation point
no peer am i
as i hypothesize,
at most i’d put
his name in
(parenthesis)
not above,
but underneath
that cold, hard stone;
and ‘neath his name
omit the dash
between his beginning
and his ending.

~

*post script.

(Dzhokhar Tsarnaev)

yes, it is a cold, hard subject,
yet one worth discussing
if only for the sake of
reminding ourselves that
some do not, will not ever
respond to the correction
and the instruction of
a civilized society.
the very basis for
the correction system
in a civilized society
should be one of hope...
hope of restoration,
hope of redemption,
hope of a soul's resurrection.
when hope is gone,
what action then?
and in what manner
are we then charged?

~

from a world of unknowns
you entered my realm of all known;
your inquisitive mind,
questions of the divine,
my existence inquisition
to you answered the question;
to live is to feel,
to feel, to be real!
ancient life work as Sufi
juxtaposes our selfie.
this new fixation
giving life to rumination.

~

*post script.

those more privileged souls, well-studied in the anthropology of poetry will already know him, but to me he was  virtual unknown until a recent daily script caught my eye; a reference to Rumi, one of the greatest of Sufi poets, Jalal al-Din Rumi wrote poems in the 13th century  see http://hellopoetry.com/rumi/ .  this poet challanges the entirety of my thought processing. only wish my discovery had come earlier in life.

~

the word flows off
the tongue with ease;
say it softly...
slowly please,

...dis-co-ver-y...

disclosure of illusory,
pursuit of the elusory;
the uncovering of
buried secrets, dark and deep,
quiet whispers, soft and sweet;
an unveiling of
the here-to-fore unknown,
illuminating darkened hallways,
where footsteps lead us
to a place where all is shown.

in life it is the quest,
explorer’s zeal
that will not rest;
in love it is
the unknown song...
to give it notes and lyrics,
time and tune
which leads to
melody and harmony.

in my time,
adventures...
i have known a few;
have sought to parse the lines
’tween false and real.
but no adventure
will replace
the one that beckons,
outstretched finger,
stares me solemn, in the face
each morning ’fore the mirror;
though the outer i may tend,
it's the inner to consider;
for to know oneself,
a journey long,
a venture of
mountaineering magnitude,
where the weak may hopeful start,
but summiting rewards
reserve remittance
to
those valiant souls,
whose inner spirit
strength imparts.

’tis not the heart,
in love to conquer;
but ’tis one’s trust instead,
faith the mountain holds
rope and feet steadfast,
finish line within
one's grasp.
faith the flame will never die
illuminate the corridors
that lie behind the locks,
the gates, the doors,
that live inside one's head.
to let another in
this place of buried pain,
of innocence gone by,
where dreams once flourished,
so oft lay dying, dead,
this secret place where we reside
the seat of all we were and are,
again will one day be;
this where needed trust,
gently to encourage,
carefully to nourish;
these the fields
of possibilities,
of hope, beliefs,
of budding dreams;
to be uncovered,
be unearthed,
love’s encounter,
tongues to loose,
await the brave and wise,
the strong discoverer,
unafraid to learn the truth.

~

*post script.

discovery...
surprise not its intent, yet may be
its greatest blessing, and accomplishment!  

a favorite blessing of mine to bestow on marrying couples,
"may your discovery of each other,
never end, or fail to delight;
and return to you the wonder,
of first love and of first sight and light!"

to you, the reader, fellow sojourner,
may you never cease to discover each other!

~

we are the sum of our whole,
though the soul until death,
is largely unknown.
our words and our deeds,
whatever our needs,
outliving, outpacing
our to-the-end racing,
until all has been
thought, said and done.
when mourners are gone,
the dirges been sung,
all the dear ones departed,
when distilling’s begun.

i believe Antony was wrong,
for the good that men do
lives after them long;
and like sickness, any ill
is interred with their bones.
misdeeds are forgotten,
harsh words set aside,
remembered the kindness,
the love and the pride.
when mourners are gone,
the dirges been sung,
all dear ones departed,
here distilling’s begun.

when the fallen lie in repose,
what’s given in secret,
done deeds not for show;
words gifted are sifted,
here goodness is known.
a life time well-lived
remains hidden not long;
here defeat is forgotten,
only victories won.
when mourners are gone,
the dirges been sung,
all dear ones departed,
then distilling’s begun.

within twilight’s stilling,
begins the distilling;
the good left behind,
in loved ones instilling.

~

*post script.

“travel light; enjoy the journey”  
words a son lived by, distilled,
only in death.
we are still...
learning,
still...
distilling,
the depth and the breadth of his life.

~

she, the girl
in a polka dot dress;
his, the heart
that beats in distress;
another day gone,
he's missed her again;
is there a future
in which they can win?
a picture in a frame
for the two of them?

connecting dots
the way we do,
its a wonder
that we ever
find the path
that's north and true;
and pick our way,
connecting points
that lead us back to you!

he went left
when he should've
gone right;
dot connecting
at its worst!
shouldn'ta been there
in the middle of the night.
i'd be lying  
if i told you
this time was his first!

connecting dots
the way we do,
its a wonder
that we ever
find the path
that's north and true;
and pick our way,
connecting points
that lead us back to you!

she pokes-at-dots,
she paints by number,
his dots and dashes
like morse code.
all to her seems so random,
though they're not
and right choices
go the distance;
a true heart
will always win!

connecting dots
the way we do,
its a wonder
that we ever
find the path
that's north and true;
and pick our way,
connecting points
that lead us back to you!

~

*post script.

same dots,
different picture;
same story,
different day;
wrong connections
change the future,
why then do we wish
we'd gone the right way?

~

do you know the way
to the place her heart resides?
or does the beauty
of her face,
her shape,
blind you, as you to fail to find
the many hidden pathways
that will lead
to love that's meaningful;
obscured in the shadows,
the depth that makes her beautiful;
for the beauty that you seek
is a treasure buried deep inside!
but infatuated longing,
is a hunger never quenched,
for companionship cannot be found
in what only lies skin deep;
in taking shortcuts to desire
while her depth is pushed aside.
just remember danger lies
in well-worn paths, and
cliched answers,
over-simplified.
but if you take the road less-traveled,
walkways most will never see,
the door to all her hopes and fears
will open wide with liberality;
the steps that lead past all the latches,
her towers of security,
for her heart can ne'r be conquered,

no!

instead it must be gently freed!


*post script.

she is everything to me! and i am reminded, often, that her heart i never took, for she gave it... freely, and with liberality! she is a treasure... in deed!  and the day that i take this simple truth for granted is the day that i will begin to have lost her!

(the knocker-upper)

~

slumber-held, locked in sleep,
woke one morn, late you see;
time rolled back 100 years,
this the era of my dream.
a world gone dark, power gone out,
no microwaves and no AC!
no hydro dams, no Tesla car,
no ’lectric drill... and no TV!
of alarm clocks? who’d ever heard!
the super star of world gone dark?
well, in my dream, tha’d be me!
for a world gone dark still must needs,
to wake at break of day!
needs knocker-uppers ev’rywhere,
the chief of which is me!
for i'm the knocker upper man
you think i knock for free? no,
a knocker upper for my supper
i’ll blow a pea for fee,
i rap the glass to roust the sleeper
my craft is breaking dreams, you see...
for who’ll wake the knocker upper?
in my dream the knocker upper chief,
the superstar of world gone dark?
yes, in my dream, tha’d be me!

~

post script.

in my morning reading, i stumbled on a once-upon-a-time... an age when mankind churned out all manner of product by hand.  this then my muse, a lighthearted glimpse of an era before the alarm clock.  in this i imagine the world before the light bulb, and as in ev’ryone’s own dreams, i play the hero. :). of course, then i awaken to find myself at my true station in life, a server of servers!  a most fitting title for whom i am meant to be!! 😋

“But who woke the knocker uppers?” A tongue-twister from the time tackled this conundrum:
We had a knocker-up, and our knocker-up had a knocker-up
And our knocker-up’s knocker-up didn’t knock our knocker up,
So our knocker-up didn’t knock us up ‘Cos he’s not up.

~

lost in thought, a deepened musing,

far away from noise and music,

welcome silence, unthreatened hush;

twilight’s western curtain of dusk,

slowly lifts, unveils her features,

displays a show for just two creatures;

celestial risings’s muted dance,

neath the moon one takes his stance,

the mighty hunter, Orion’s threat,

till from the chase he falls in sweat.

the stars connect in tale by numbers,

whispered tell from lips each utters;

in dreams our bodies join the arch,

heaven’s hosts with whom we march,

a nightly parade of planets calling,

till herald sounds the curtain falling,

when daybreak brings them sweet relief.

as one by one they fall... in sleep.

~

postscript.

a trip to Central Washington's wine country last week under a rising harvest moon begged a nighttime detour to Maryhill’s Stonehenge. the starry night, free of city light pollution, the constellations, the shadows of a full moon on cold granite... all so hauntingly beautiful... reminds us that we are gifted our role in the nightly parade of stars, the breathtaking march of planets that we need only look up to join.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPK6iq0gnks&

~
dreams of you,
they fill my mind;
dreams of us,
our hearts entwined;
inseparable we,
this you and i,
the dream we dreamed,
us unified.
from two came three,
love multiplied;
conceived a song,
it testified;
our voices sang
their lullaby;
the how, the why
still mystifies;
your heart of love
it underlies.
here... dreams of you
still fill my mind;
i dream of us,
ever entwined.
~

~

earth's stunning beauty...
a bitter sweet concoction
we imbibe to pass away
the hours, the haze,
our allotted days
with effervescing
memories!

~

*post script.

written in response to a club-member's photo post on another site...
a medley of photos from her garden.

her photos, my musings...
how could she know that today is a musing, effervescent day?

~

something
sinister
this way came,
a lie insidious
steals our name;
one most often
we accept,
one so common
we ignore
its evil dance
concealed
in shame;
cohabitation
at its worst.
a simple line
that looks like this…

though brutal
our abuser
when asked
to spill our soul,
accounting for
another’s misdeeds.
instead our tongues
get caught
with heavy coils
that pull us down.
when cruel jaws
that gripped our leg
could be opened
by our witness,
hungry fangs
clamp tigher still
because we sit
in silence;
and in our silence
witness bear
the marks of
these who hurt us
the ones who
claimed to care.
whose uncovering
feels betrayal
and betrayer
feels the thief,
it adds to
our undoing,
becomes
a web of our
own choosing;
contradiction
of entrapment
traps us in
another's deeds.

i ain't no thief,
i’m just a child
with a story;
the only one
i’ve ever known.
its mine I say,
it fits me well,
it isn't one i stole.
these marks
have made me,
yes... even this
my painful tome.
but take this story
from this child,
you’ll take away
my only home!
take away
my lies
my name
and I’ll
be stripped
of all but bone;
left to wither,
die alone.
i'm just a child
with a story,
the only one
i"ve ever known.

i bear these scars,
i know them well,  
today i wonder why
i never chose to tell.


~

post script


is it too painful to relive the story?
or perhaps it is that in my shedding
i fear it will become my shredding
all that i have come to know,
despite its pain, as part of my own soul.

today i tell others to spill the truth
but am not willing to follow my own advice.
does this not make me guilty of
knowing but failing to act
on my own behalf?

~

had i not known wrong
i had been the lesser man
had i not sung winter’s song
i had known no warmth to gain
had i never tasted blood
i failed to see fragility
and had i not these understood
life’s tenderness was lost to me.

~

*post script.

for Pradip who shared the only muse these words were wanting on this special holy-day. please read SJR's gorgeous post, but then see Pradip’s after-words here: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2246391/gratitude/

Epiphany: January 6th https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epiphany_(holiday)

excuses 
are 
the 
skin 
of 
reason 
stuffed 
with 
a 
lie!

”tonight we fall back,”* 
she calls from the kitchen;
as another year of savings 
comes to its end.

but what she doesn't know 
can't comprehend is
her partner’s been scheming 
to create a new trend.

the time is approaching
he hardly can wait
to make his announcement
to change his own fate

he knows it’s his moment
to make his debut
to shine in the sun, yes
they’ll adore him, he’s sure

for in secret he’s plotted
their rules to bend
their idyllic practice 
he’s about to upend.

those roll-over minutes 
that each Fall they give back
he’s been saving them up 
for a trip to his bank.

he watched everyone else 
as their hour disappears
while he’s saved up his minutes 
for twenty-three years.

so this Monday’s the day 
that he’s cashing them in
a whole twenty-four hours
a full day to spend;

in trade or as barter
he could gift them for free
to spend how he wants 
any which way he please.

or, when all of his friends 
have to roll out of bed
he’d have twenty-four hours 
to roll over instead.

its not counterfeit money 
he’s sure that it's not
he’s just saving his own
that yearly he got;

it can’t be a crime 
its not like minutes he prints
he’s just exploited in full 
their time-savings mint.

so if ever you’re time-broke
you might heed his advice
your roll-over minutes 
you will save if you’re wise.

~

of her are
countless stories told,
ancient face angelic;
some think she a
seductive mistress,
while some see none,
but lunar cold.
but others find
her gaze majestic;
never sleeping,
memories keeping,
always watching,
ever seeking... as the
world below unfolds.

eyes that
never turn aside,
her tidal draw,
that ne’er subsides;
and flows within,
her mother's pride;
for even when
we see her not,
unbroken gaze,
men's deeds engraves;
of ev'ry tribe,
the fateful scribe;
she the keeper
of this race!

~

post script.

since childhood i have found the moon to be entrancing... both beautiful and mysterious. surely i am not alone in conjuring mystical theories and fantasied metaphors for our lovely lady above!

as the ever watchful eye in the heavens above, do you, like me, wonder if just maybe it is she who metes out justice, who deals man's swift reward?  and what if, just maybe, those who to our eye, seem to escape the consequence of their actions, who seem to skate along unscathed... what if their consequences are simply too great to unveil in this realm, and instead, she, the fateful, faithful scribe has rendered and reserved for them in the next, their recompense and just reward?  i shudder to think of it!

~

faux* lion
with
faux roar
makes for
one fauxroceous animal

( lose the kid )*

~

in the summer of
his sixteenth year,
somewhere o'er the
continental shelf
off California,
while still at
thirty-thousand feet,
he threw him out.
without a suit
or parachute
he left him naked...
drowning in the surf.
i suppose he should
have thanked him kindly, or
said goodbye at very least,
a'fore that final shove;
he admits it was
a brutal move, and in
hindsight kinda rude;
yet sometimes a kid
must simply choose,
knowing that a better
time may never come.
and so the boy that
held him back from change;
impulsive child that
in the dormitory
no one friended.
the kid who spent
more time in trouble
than did he not,
just got up-ended.
yes, that kid who stole
his mother’s tin, full
of fifty yen pieces;
with which he bought
himself a treat
(or maybe two or three);
the one who on the long
train ride to school,
placed his chewing gum
between the closing doors,
then watched with evil grin as
morning masses poured on through
when they opened once again.
yes, this impulsive one with
boundless energy to scheme,
was deliverer to three
sweet, older sisters, of
spiders, snakes and countless,
blood-curdling screams.
one who stole the Lord’s name
Alfred Tennyson, that is,
who for a few days called,
another’s words his own,
(that is until another
set that record straight).
who terrorized four older
siblings and one younger too,
for sixteen diabolic years.
this heartless, evil twin
who always seemed to hide
some twisted humor deep inside.
becoming stuck, in the past,
like some old chewing gum
stuck between the doors.
and just growing older
wasn’t going to change
anything at all;
for you see, change within
requires an exchange without...
people, that is, who accept
the new, throw out the old.
but you know what's crazy?
no sooner had he lost the
weight of that old estate,
and pushed that kid aside
this thief, liar, cheat...
troubled kid and now...
a killer too ( and yet no
less would even do ).
no sooner had he landed in
these United States, his past
entire was left behind.
new and alive inside out
and he began to find,
to thrive... anew.

like a butterfly from
dark cocoon emerging for
his migratory transformation;
his trans-Pacific flight,
from East to West alighting.
thus began a future
full of blank pages;
a slate swept clean inside,
like that swift jet stream outside,
carried his 747 on
to brand new opportunity.
all for his rewriting, words
he’d never thought nor dreamed.
and although nothing else
had really changed,
on the inside he was
nearly,
mostly,
all the very same...

nothing that is,
except...

everything!

~

*post script.

though no blood was shed, all lines herein have some degree of truth; it's quite ok to laugh, to cry, to smile, or decide this is the worst you've ever seen. it's my life... well... the beginning of the new beginnings of my life.  

in reality we do not typically, when at the time of crossroads know it is at a crossroads we are standing, such being usually more readily evident in the rearview mirror. and yet somehow this sixteen year old knew he’d just been handed a new identity, and without any witness protection program.

because...
sometimes a kid just needs a new start!!

~

lover’s hearts connected together
with thousands of “pinky-swears,”
lover’s lips locked tight in 
hundreds of french-braided kisses and
a two-tongues-tied, single promise of
a life time of sacrifice to one another...
to my betrothed, my chosen love,
my never ending discovery of
this, your ever-unwrapping gift;
what was once a child’s sweet heart,
has become a storm-tested harbor, 
a resting place for my weary soul.
my eyes still dazzled at the sight
of your undulating hills covered 
only in a million forget-me-knots.
my heart still sings in unison
to the thrumming, rhythm of our song, 
together with the beating of
the heart that gave me yours.

~

*for this, our 37th Valentine's
sweetheart Day, together... 
i love you, my darling,
my sweet Becky!

forever changed by your life,

grateful...

i was your father

~

a dear friend of mine wrote this after losing
her best friend and mother, and almost immediately after,
also her beautiful voice.  as with so many things we write
during our most trying times, these profound and poignant lines
were written during her voice-less struggle.

~

stress tightened it's noose on me,
i couldn't say a word.

people saw my lips move...
but little could be heard;

doctors asked me, 'does it hurt?'
and followed my, 'yes!', with, 'where?'

moving my fingers to my heart,
i softly whispered... 'there!'

~

*by Sunshine Dixon

~

post script.

i am grateful to be able to write that
after an extended period without it,
Sunshine's beautiful voice was finally restored.  
i re-discovered this write while perusing through
some past correspondence and on seeing it
decided right then that it would be selfish
to not share my love for her voice
with all of you!

~

will the sun forgive us...
will the stars and moon
forget to shine, because
we slipped away before
the sun had slipped behind
the mountains tall?
or did they care at all,
that we had found
the deepest colors
in each other's eyes,
and uncovered.
earth-bound
heavenly bodies and
ev'ry softened edge
of two-body's heart's
fore'er entwined?

~

*post script.

if heavenly bodies could speak
might the tales they tell
uncover much we thought.
hidden so well?

thirty-six years ago 
by their count 
just last week
a german girl 
with irish roots
swept lanky, 
blonde-haired 
blue-eyed lad 
from off his feet

she with hazel eyes 
that change by whim 
of brunette hair 
and silky skin
his arrival fresh 
from land afar
as appearance goes 
not foreigner 
yet foreign still 
in his homeland 
to he it was 
but fairyland

first sight a playground 
football game
same name but different 
than he’d played
their first date 
a corner burger stand
suited him, though 
not very grand

what she saw 
is still unclear
this blue-eyed lad 
from yesteryear

suffice to say 
he’s grateful she did 
and she still does
and to this day
has kept up her promise
to honor forever
and always love

and he 
knowing some say 
marriage is not their cup
he knows
(this blonde 
and blue-eyed lad)
he knows for sure...
he married 
**up!