Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Winding Our Way Through Time
















The rising sun marks break of day
Its zenith, we call noon.
Its setting brings the evening chill
And ushers in the moon.

The sundial charts its burning rays
Its pathway plotted out
Predicts the hour of every day
Beyond a shadow of a doubt!

Precious time, there’s none to waste
And so we set the staff
Inventing ways to track its passage
Clocks and chronograph 

The mainspring and the pendulum,
The tall Grandfather clock
Becomes the heartbeat of the home
Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock

The pocket watch with silver chain
Umbilical, life line
We spend our days; entire lives,
Winding our way through time

Time is time, it’s so precise
Ethereal and pure,
With a watch we always know the time
But when we’ve two, unsure!





Segal's law is an adage that states: 

"A man with a watch knows what time it is. A man with two watches is never sure."

Saturday, May 20, 2017

Renaissance Man
























The Man with the Golden Helmet


Resplendent in his gilded helm,
This aged man of war
Fills up this frame with shoulders broad
While gazing toward the floor.
From window high or chandelier
His helm and gorget glossed.
But faded coat of royal hue
In darkened backdrop’s lost.

His famous helm is highly domed
Its brim and comb but brief,
Ornately wrought with floral  print
In striking bas-relief.
The leather chin-strap’s barely seen;
By golden cheek guards bested.
And on the cap, with feathered plume
Of red and white it’s crested.

Who is this man of battles past
Whose strong yet haggard face
Conceals the secrets of his mind,
Of victories and disgrace?
We may never know this regal man
Nor where his helmet lies,
But here in Rembrandt’s skillful oils
He is immortalized!


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Narwhals













Nomads of the Arctic,
Never traveling south,
Noble Unicorns live
Now in the sea, under
Northern Lights and ice flows.
Near Threatened, will they die?
New hope in vigilance! 

My Joy Overflowing
















You know the sound.
That whooshing whine of the toilet tank refilling.
You know it’s bound 
To stop eventually, so you go about your milling.
Subconscious warnings,
Pushed aside as your need to write starts growing.
Lost in yarning,
It’s not just your joy that is overflowing!

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Big John

















Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;
Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.
His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town
He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.
One long hot summer; played like a pawn
He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.
He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet
As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set
On Big John!

He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon
‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.
Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back
With a face as long as a wagon-wheel track.
The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,
But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.
So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar
And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.

He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.
I thought it was over, except for the fact
That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,
I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.
There in the corner; his back to the wall,
He waited with patience; said nothing at all.
Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,
His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.

It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some
Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.
Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.
Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.
Big John just stood there; there in the door,
Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.
Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole
Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!

The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.
They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!
The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”
Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.

Monday, May 1, 2017

Count Your Blessings












Modern man, with his well-laid plans
Can aspire to a stately mount!
In democracy, there is always hope
For it is his vote that counts!

But the lowly serf, just digging turf

Is destined to live with goats.
For in his feudal society
It is only his Count that votes!

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

The Backward Poet



















He wakes every morning at a nine quarter past
And lanes down the stroll to his box mail.
But, finding none there he home saunters fast
For his fast break is hot, getting stale.

Over gravy and biscuits and a tea cup of hot
He reads the news local review
But the paper news columns are jumbled and fraught
With stories of bad not good news.

Selling poems for a living, this renowned is a man
Who’s tangled up think mind’s a curse.
How does this poet make sense of a plan?
Why it’s simple, he just writes inverse!

Friday, February 24, 2017

Poets














So you fancy that you know the poet?
I for one, wouldn’t dare make that claim!
Poets have ventured where few men have been,
And the poet is no stranger to pain.

Poets don’t live on the same plane as most,
Theirs is much deeper and higher.
They have dipped their quills in the blackest of ink
And climbed farther than most can aspire.

In a way, he is like a reporter
But his stories do not come second hand.
When his words bring to life vivid scenes of delight
You can bet there’s more gold in the sand.

The poet who writes of the joys of a puppy
And paints pictures of frolic and play
Has watched his companion grow old and pass on,
And thanked the good Lord for the days.

The man who rejoices at a burgeoning oak
Just breaking forth from the brown
Has sat in the shade of a towering red wood
And wept when it fell to the ground.

When the words of a bard touch you deep with its truth
And ring in your heart like a bell
You can bet that he paid for that seed with his youth
Or snatched it from some unknown hell.

For ‘tis poets, not fools who will quickly rush in
Where good men and angels refrain.
Only there do his cryptic words yield their meaning
Only there can you feign know his pain.


Monday, March 7, 2016

Winter Magic















Old man winter, with his broad brush of white,
Blew in last evening and stayed up all night.
He painted the mountains in spectral degrees,
He whitewashed the houses and flocked all the trees.
For all of his huffing and puffing I’d say,
He’s out-done himself on this beautiful day!

Monday, September 14, 2015

I Love to Hear the Bacon Sing!












I love to hear the bacon sing,
Its wafting essence meant to bring
The slumbered family from their lairs
With hopes of sampling morning fare.

Like Siren’s song or Venus’ face
They’re drawn to bacon’s fond embrace.
Now add the scent of waffles warm,
The maple syrup brings the swarm!

Eggs to order, short stacks brown
Biscuits, OJ, rolls renowned,
It never fails a smile to bring,
I love to hear the bacon sing!