Like a beautiful pink camellia that's how you appear to me
That bloom in chilly August on it's dark green mother tree
So bright and fresh and pretty in the wintery wind and rain
That's how you've always looked to me and that's how you will remain.

The beautiful camellia flower that blooms fresh and young today
In two or three weeks if that long will have gone into decay
For flowers have such a brief span they quickly fade away
But in sixty years of living your beauty with you stay.

I feel privileged and grateful for to have you as a friend
And I will love you and respect you until my life will end
You are warm and kind hearted and well loved and well known
And it's due to you and to you only that into a better person I have grown.

You are wise and quite intelligent and beautiful to behold
And you don't have a gray hair on your head and you never will grow old
And on your sixtieth birthday you still look beautiful to me
Like the young and pretty pink flower on the green camellia tree.

It felt like the last time that I would ever experience this again
so of course, I missed it before it even ended
My grandfather sat in the passenger seat
saying he hoped he made it to his sixtieth anniversary
no turning back now, dad
said my own father
we won't live forever my grandfather said
my uncle to my right talked of a man freezing himself
he was coerced he was coerced
he told us, as if it was such a bad thing to be frozen
your brain cells multiply though
don't give her any more ideas
star wars got its ideas from star trek
I will never be this young again
I may never hear these words again
It was a nice time though, just to be

Sometimes I feel as though time has stopped moving
I know that it never really stops
That time moves as regularly as it can
But
Moments linger
They lag and rip and jostle
Stretch out like taffy in a candy stores window on a boardwalk
They have a tendency to stick around long past the expiration date
I know
Somewhere in the factual portion of my brain
That each second is uniform
One sixtieth of a minute and one thirty-six hundredth of an hour
Exact concrete absolute
Measured just the same
As if I can’t lose everything
In that same second
That was
At one time or another
As uniform and bland as all the others.

This is the five thousand four hundred and sixtieth poem I have written
And I'm not close to done
I'm having too much fun
I can be the daylight under the sun
I write every day to keep my thoughts clear
Many of them are about some sweet dear
But many others are about loneliness and fear
This is not the end
You can achieve this as well
Even when everything is not swell
You must try.
I almost lost all hope in myself before I took up this hobby of mine
I've made best use of my precious time
Being confused on how to rhyme
Instead of who has the best drama
I took up this hobby and never looked back
I became a newbie poet and into today I think I still am
But the point is
I made a commitment
To be a writer
So I made every day a chance to be something greater than before
I don't regret a single second
I'm a published poet
But will I ever be the best?
I don't think I stand a chance
But that's just me talking.
It's really up to the great readers out there to decide.

I woke up on your sixtieth birthday
And realized I’ve been with you
For half your life!
Yet to me it seems sometimes
No more than the blink of an eye,
No more surprising than a sigh.
Yet then, I think of the joy
The kindness and love
You have given me as naturally
As you might breathe.
Then the aching passion that began
Long ago, now burnished with time
Still burns like the fire inside a jewel!
And each day seems like a hundred years
In which I hold you even when you aren’t near.
I would wish for another half of all you are,
But then I realize, that would never
Be enough.

Tension high,
the air is saturated with dust and mist
moving about like asteroids in space.
Time is almost up
our once high morale
Gradually drops.

Radiation from Ice,
electrify our veins.
Last drops of adrenaline,
Supplement race in the field.

Hope is swallowed by panic pangs,
the galaxy smiles on the sixtieth second.
Yeah! that last minute.

The metal lands on the pedal with an accuracy like that of the dance of the milky way.
The net is shaken,
not by the winds,
but by a circular ring of fire.....
And it is a goal.

Honey from thyme ―
sun shimmies summer's morning
stirring the mind's hive to its labors
shifting leg's chores to the wing
in flight of floating aerial lines
to plot of pink and purple anchorage

no silk to swing upon its travail
dear bee, fueled by golden cakes
aviates air's curves and troughs
in one sixtieth of an arc degree
of its calculated tiny soul
as plot of pink and purple anchorage

then angles promenade in mid-day sail
their dance transmit the call
an exponential 'pas de deux' channeled
through ancestral ***** music
to nourish generational ascent
anchored in this pink and purple thyme

-cec

“Oh! Son it´s good to have you home
c´mon in, there´s a fresh brew on the stove,
we´ve missed you and we´ve worried so
did you get all our letters sent with love?”

Your rooms just as you left it, lad
c´mon in, I´ll get a dinner on,
your Dad will be home shortly, lad
he tells everyone he´s proud of you, our son.

What´s it like, the trenches, lad
and what´s it like this place they call the Somme,
it´s been a year you´ve been away
how long´s  this madness going on.

Sorry to hear about your friend, lad
and about the way he met his end,
we keep praying for your safety, son
and for this ****** war to end.

Sit down and take your boots of son
I´ll go and bring your slippers down,
how´s your brew, is it strong enough
Oh! Lad, it´s so good to have you home.

Mrs Linton´s boy´s, John, and Dave
they won´t be coming home,
she got the telegrams this morning
must be the twentieth in this town.

You seem to be much taller, son
and your features seem much harder now,
you have the look of a man about you, lad
with those troubled lines upon your brow.

Did you get the cakes we sent, lad
and the gloves and socks we made,
do they feed you well over there, lad
come and help me get the table laid”.

“I´m only home for two weeks, Ma
then it´s back to the front for me,
it´s good to be back home again
I´ve really missed your cups of tea.

Our Regiment was two hundred strong, Ma
and now we´re down to seventy-three,
it´s hell living in the trenches, Ma
I´ve seen things young men should never see”.

Four months later, Ma received a telegram
the sixtieth in the town,
her lad is missing in action
and his remains have not been found.

“C´mon in, I´ve made a nice strong brew, Pa
it says our lad´s not coming home,
it was delivered here this morning, Pa”
and then the pair of them broke down.

Tom Balch  ©

Life finally

kicked him

dead to

the floor.



and this time

he isn't

getting up.



no marine training

or marriage counseling

or running away

from his problems

is going to save

him now.



jack's not coming

back.



there will be no notes,

or apologizes,

or second serves.



his mind was made

up long ago.



he told us so.

and now he

has made

sure we would all

finally, believe

him.



in his

sixtieth or

so year now

Oregon

will be his final

resting  place

far from all

that knew him.



he was funny

that way.



get to close

to touch him

and his

temper

would only burn

your hand.



and those that

knew him.

will sigh.

and regret

his regrets.

and empty

their pockets

and lie on the

table

all of the memories

good and bad

about him.



but the gun

he allowed

to make

the final

verdict upon

his life.

will now lay

harsh and
cold and  silent.



and the

wish that

he always

carried

with him

just beneath

the surface

will finally be

true.



jack's not

coming back.



and my

world  for one

will miss

him.

A scenario unfolds
more abominable among
any previous warring factions,
his wicked weltanschauung
charred effigies futilely hung
against regime of brutality
considerably more unbearable
than infestation of fruit flies brung
about courtesy evil monster sprung
shortchanging restless and young.

Seconds to spare before
Doomsday clock strikes
twelve o'clock midnight
every man, woman and child
will need fend for themselves,
whereby prophetic apocalypse
(sponsored courtesy smug faced Putin -
man of lamb munch cha cha cha
self anointed how zen tyrant by proxy)
unleashing total mortal Kombat,
when the human race
reduced (née pulverized)
to nothing more intelligent
than nippy nap noopy,
glippy glop gloopy,
cheesy bonafide August dust
thermonuclear dystopian landscape
subjected to global nuclear winter.

Time measured in nanoseconds
1⁄1,000,000,000 of a second,
or 10⁻⁹ seconds. The term
combines the prefix nano-
with basic unit for one-sixtieth
of a minute. A nanosecond
equals 1000 picoseconds
or 1⁄1000 microsecond.

Yours truly will put his head
but tween these
skinny spindle shank legs
and kiss thine braying a$$
(donkey *** tee) good-bye
asper ma person,
thine gluteus maximus
during my roaring twenties
a boot the size of a hand held
palm pilot cell phone,

hence nada worth ache cry
though ah share
a preference not hood die
yet if push (shin
the atomic bombardier button)
combs **** hove Eli
zha would be nowhere in sight,
thence salvation might be sought
from a common
(sad dulled) horse fly
to bring deliverance

(due ling ban joe plucked solo)
to this generic goofy guy
who reckons, cuz
there will be no time to converse
‘cept as mentioned earlier me high
knee will be the sole recipient, I
one beetle browed capital one
**** earnestly frank gremlin hominid

will spout hot air
and confuse the burst
of flatulence from ma bare
swaying bell bottom as an echo –
loud and clear
that used to be mode of hen dear
mint ‘tween muss elf and spouse –
wherever she may be ‘ere
a presumption, she met her demise
amidst radiation with fear

and loathing uncertain who
to vent her angry glare
understandable to pay price
for the folly of heir
wannabe of history Don Trump –
perchance he too got vaporized
as crackling Geiger counter intimates
forecasts deadly snowfall icier
i.e. Mother nature adorned
***** flakes fluttering among
the global debacle – where jeer
ring grim reaper will be feted

as like at a fancy feast with choicest bit
of human remains of the doomsday,
and immune to perilous nuclear fit
loosed upon the terra firmae,
where most every
metropolitan center ground zero
but with heavy-duty weapons
of mass destruction,
one need not make a direct hit
cuz the deadly fallout
will make the entire globe
tuff Hester and become liquefied
bubbling as one large snake pit,
thus no more poetry competitions

– **** –
yet writing aye will not quit,
but upon fallout material
I will eke out underground subsistence
existence, and scratch out
whatever thoughts seem worthwhile
*** ping an alien will discover
visa vis bunched inside
an iron made in USA bunker
and held tightly sealed
qua many a makeshift rivet.

Steely Dan sing queen (me)
outdid himself on sixtieth anniversary
after Grahame Wood
determined to meet
the evolving needs of the community
opened the first Wawa Food Market
in Folsom, PA, on April 16, 1964.

Today marked the sixth decade
since George Wood started
the Wawa dairy in 1902,
and it quickly became
a trusted name for fresh,
quality dairy.

As an unsung Patrons of said store,
I strove to achieve mitzvah
for an incapacitated wheelchair bound
resident here at Highland Manor Apartments.

The fickle finger (hut) of fate
unknowingly planned to liquidate
honest to dog sincere intentions
to deliver said drinkable goods
(you can bet your bottom dollar)
on his sterling promise
never foreseeing disastrous
misadventure out ranking
starry eyed bespectacled klutz
comprising the heart of this poem at any rate
(nitty gritty details omitted),
but essentially and summarily
spilled contents from three
twenty ounce cups of hotly perked coffee    
scalding himself in the process,
where epithets spewed
inadequately served at X-rate.

I asked him if he liked coffee
cuz today aforementioned vendor
acknowledged the brainchild
offering buzzfeeding caffeinated brew free
American chain of convenience stores
and gas stations originating
in the Philadelphia metropolitan area,
and now located along the East Coast
of the United States,
operating in Pennsylvania, New Jersey,
Delaware, Maryland, Virginia,
Washington, D.C., and Florida.

The remaining lines of this reasonable rhyme
garnered courtesy an endeavor
attempted quite some years ago
attempt bordering on the ridiculous to the sublime.

Even when iron not red hot,
I implement non customary quirks
regarding going for broke into survivor mode  
asia foreigner rather cold as ice
namely delinquent outsize credit card debt
mandates yours truly,
a cheesy survivor who rem: members
putting freeze on
Citizens Bank World MasterCard accounts,
whose helplessness to fork over

substantial dollar figure
analogous to one of three blind mice,
who ran after the farmer's wife
She cut off tails (OUCH!)
with a carving knife
must pay the price
methinks food in the slammer (ha)
will lack sugar and spice,
nevertheless macht schnell trice.

I exhaled deep sigh of relief
after speaking over the telephone,
whereby Arcadia Recovery Bureau
(i.e. collection agency)
based in Reading, Pennsylvania
explained yours truly owed $23.21
which considerably alleviated
immediate dire straits that figuratively
grabbed me by the nuts
hash tagged self scoundrel
a day late dollar short
dollars to donuts bonafide klutz

living ****** mint procreative
seminal squirt biological reproduction,
could never conceive to abort
despite countless occasions,
I blithely admit characteristics
linkedin with being a putz
going off rails as a one man train wreck
mine impossible mission to avoid
NOT running amok imagine
bull in a china shop
whereby the hypothetical proprietor
willing, ready able to tear out my guts.

Pigeon toed, I trip over me own little feet
size nine shoe small size for grown man
leaving utter disaster in his wake
synonymous when havoc strikes
chaos theory alive and well
ensues when I walk about
and dare take even one baby step.

Ever since adept with ability to crawl,
I ofttimes tumbled down the stairs,
but never did shed tears nor bawl
e'en when taking nosedive head first did fall
out the hatch of airplane

splattered, plastered, and matted
think suddenly feeling comfortably numb
joist another brick in wall
nevertheless acquiring stunt man role
paid big bucks

as **** sapien disguised as Sasquatch
(cause unkempt harried styled hair)
more times than I can remember
fell to Earth minus parachute,
which hoop fully explains

the incomprehensible drawl
earnestly and frankly harkening language
once extant within Gaul
which reverberated inside hall
of mountain (lionized) king.

Prior to any madcap misadventure
yours truly envisions his clumsiness
plays out within my third eye blind
hilarious scenario unfolds in slow motion
whereby accidental flick of wrist,
barely brushes up against
flimsy clothes rack

(the original motive begetting poem)
knee **** involuntary reaction,
kicking obstacle clear across Compton
generating comical feedback loop
impossible mission to stop
blockchain of fateful bitcoin events.

Living amidst (amongst) disarray
courtesy the missus, whose domestic habits
never merit housekeeping seal of approval
twenty four/seven pose
a hazard to mine existence.

Twenty nine years ago I lost my mother to
Cancer, she was fifty nine. She died in May before her sixtieth birthday which would have been on this date November twelfth
So today is her birthday in Heaven.
Happy Birthday Mom❤️❤️❤️
I miss ya!!! Her favorite time of year was
Spring and she loved Butterflies and she is our Butterfly Angel.


🦋Butterfly Angel🦋

  In the dark of the night
Sometimes I cry
It’s been so hard,
Since you said goodbye

When I’m alone
Sometimes I see your face
The tears may fall
But I know you’re in a better place

Butterfly Angel,
So high and free
Butterfly Angel,
Watch over me

There isn’t a day,
I don’t think of you
I know I should be happy,
But sometimes I feel blue

Now you’ve sent me a sign,
Saying everything’s ok
A reason to live,
For a better day

Butterfly Angel,
So high and free
Butterfly Angel,
Watch over me

When I see you,
In your fluttering flight
With your colorful wings,
In the shimmering light

I know when God comes for me
I’ve got nothing to fear
The memory of you,
Will always stay strong and clear

Butterfly Angel,
So high and free,
Butterfly Angel,
Watch over me

Butterfly Angel,
So high and free
Butterfly Angel,
I know you’re watching over me

Written By: Charles Kean
Copyright © 2009
From my book (New Angel)
All rights reserved