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."

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!

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!

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.

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!