The Web Poetry Corner
The Web Poetry Corner
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Living Will (Kill You)
As I've written my thoughts,
throughout my life.
I tried not to rhyme the words,
It seemed the result was always contrived.
But, I went and did it anyway.
So I've fallen into that same old rut,
So what, that's how poetry's written.
You've still got to have a good reason,
for all the fussin' and fittin'.
An intro is a good opportunity,
to lead into enlightened thought.
If my heart was truly bleedin'
I'd have no trouble with what I've wrought.
I've become a tortured artist,
with a thousand things to say.
I wish my soul could write them down,
as I'm distracted throughout the day.
Even though this started out,
to be a positive tune.
My thoughts keep going to ruin.
I don't need to look at the first half,
to know what's within.
Now that I'm on the backslide,
isn't it a sin.
If I try to cover all the things,
that get under my skin.
I still couldn't get back,
to from where I've been.
A quarter century has flown by now,
It's never to late to cry anyhow.
And it's been four decades,
since I made the trip.
It's taken forty years,
to become a middle aged drip.
So I guess I can stop,
trying to be hip.
Sit in the STRATOLOUNGER,
and check for a blip.
Have I recently become a fan,
of MURDER SHE WROTE ?
or maybe I just stepped off the boat.
Let all the beautiful people gloat,
I just need to be better than myself.
Wealth certainly won't haunt me,
go ahead, taunt me.
Does anybody want me?
to sit back down in that chair.
Oh contraire, please don't stare.
I'm suddenly enjoying this ruse.
Don't reach for a noose,
I've cooked my own goose.
By inducing you to pull out your hair.
I can go anywhere,
Does anyone really care,
as long as I'm there.
I might as well be sitting in my underwear.
I can mow the yard with my SNAPPER,
manipulate appliances with my CLAPPER.
I won't appear to be dapper,
if I've fallen and can't get up.
So what, I'm no longer a pup,
I don't drink from a sippy cup.
As I move on to other subjects,
I hope you've gotten the gist.
There's a chance that in my ramblings,
the point is completely missed.
You know it, I'm pissed,
I keep rehashing favorite rhymes.
but it does help me to remember,
some of life's good times.
How do I feel about me-ism,
can't we just give peace a chance.
If you can't even dance,
don't expect romance,
every time you drop your pants.
I want you to know,
I've got loved ones on both sides.
Some are living,
some that have died.
When it comes time for me,
to go to the open wide.
I want you all to know,
that I cared, I tried.
The concept of this run-on poem,
is not to test your stamina,
but as thoughts come and go,
it's a turn-on, don't you know.
like hacking through,
the jungles of Panama.
In an effort to finish these verses off,
there's one thing I want you to know.
Life is its own reward.
So savor each moment, and don't pretend.
It won't break your heart in the end.
In an effort to churn out advance in prose,
and release myself from bygone throes.
I'll break on through what time had froze,
in a moment of self repose.
In what seemed to me a static life,
where nothing ever changed.
I searched the past for what would last,
and found that dream deranged.
I felt that life was limited,
by shadows in my past.
Until I searched for what was then,
but found it faded fast.
And then I poised for echoes,
hoping for a sound.
But all I found was emptiness,
and silence all around.
Then thoughts began to conjure up,
visions of today.
I'd found the past had given in,
and set me on my way.
So if there is a meaning,
to be found within these lines.
It's that those ghosts who trouble you,
are figments of your mind.
For Better and Worse
This is a letter for worse, or better,
to tell my philosophies.
Through time and changes,
one finds he arranges,
his moods to fit his needs.
Childhood is a special time of life,
innocence is the word.
But changes come by everyone,
until it all becomes quite rife.
Adolescence carries the essence,
of directing one's future goals.
"For you my friend..." some recommend,
"...the saving of indigent souls."
Adulthood comes through teeth to gums.
at times it's hard to take.
Soon we're told by those who scold,
only we can make our breaks.
Middle age creeps slowly,
and takes one by surprise.
You wonder how life went so fast,
and was spent before your eyes.
And old age is the final verse,
a rest, repose, a curse.
Existing by wits and pieces and bits,
living for better and worse.
Why The Rhyme
In the beginning of jumbled words,
meanings are quite discreet.
music comes out in mumbled thirds,
the outcome less than sweet.
Singular man has a different plan,
free form verse, not prose.
Rambling gamble, ambling goes.
tales of trouble and woes.
the climax, the end,
fate with a different bend.
The reason, the rhyme,
the season, the time,
mixture of a certain blend.
I'd like to sleep late in the morning,
it could be done so lazily.
The unemployment line,
Life would be prime.
But I can't afford to waste time.
I'd like to buy the things I need,
but it's hard to save even a buck.
High rollers throw it around like chicken feed,
success must be related to luck.
I'd like to find a little sweetheart,
one who sews and also cooks.
And if I fail to locate that dear lady,
I'll blame it on my lack of looks.
I'd like to make it in the big-time,
making deals with the publishing crooks.
I'd rave about our new best sellers,
and never care to read the books.
I'd like to end it all the easy way,
drive my car off a dangerous curve.
But there isn't a way I'd miss a new day,
besides, I've never really had the nerve.
Well it's ten years later,
and life's still the same.
And though I've shown the patience of a waiter,
I still can't get in the game.
Employment lines get longer,
the song I sing gets songer.
If the economy doesn't get stronger,
I may have to give up fame.
Now I finally got the things I need,
I even saved some bucks.
I'm not quite sure if it would help me out,
if Chrysler could sell some trucks.
I also found my sweetheart,
she sews and yes, she cooks.
through the absence of my financial planning,
she now is keeping the books.
I'd still like to make it in the big-time,
maybe I could sell some poems.
if that fails to alleviate the problem,
I may take up ravaging homes.
Ten years from now, who knows where I'll be,
if I'm around when it happens,
only then will I see.
So my latest impression of recession/success,
is that I'm always going to be simply me.
My Own Life
Much has been said,
about the content of one's head.
What's your karma?
how to inform another,
seems to be the trick.
Discourse is of course,
what's been said with profundity.
Generosity at high velocity,
in a stream of negativity.
As you listen to reams,
of another man's dreams,
you consciously give and take.
Of the half baked bread,
from a hollow head,
and a trail of inner screams.
Now you've got your life,
and I've got mine.
If I can handle that much,
I know I'll be fine.
If I need a direction,
I'll show you a sign.
Send you a message,
drop you a line.
If you think I'm morose,
about getting too close,
my heart is beginning to bleed.
Don't believe what you read,
I can't supply the need.
I've got my own life to lead.
Father, Mother, Son
With Christmas season around the bend,
I felt a poem for me to send.
would be the right thing that I could do,
to show just what I feel for you.
With much ambition our new addition,
has made us truly one.
We'll be together through wintry weather,
father, mother and son.
Now Yuletide brings a special glow,
our precious love will surely grow.
This season remembers what once was done,
by father, mother and son.
So my Christmas message to you dear (mother),
is that we'll always have each other.
Christmas time was originally begun,
by father, mother and son.
In retrospect and retrograde,
let's see who flopped,
who got it made.
Five years time is not so long,
ten years by, we all have gone.
Triple time to a simple song,
and something goes wrong.
One became a corporate chief,
another relies on religious belief.
Still another is lost in grief,
as time becomes a thief.
Then one day as the paper's read,
we find another friend who's dead,
and remember once when someone said,
it's you who makes your bed.
Then reunions become a communion thing,
we grope for the past like a brass ring.
We jump and shout and laugh and scream,
as the past comes back a familiar dream.
When once we were a part of one,
we now are apart from everyone.
We live our lives in a tunnel run,
'till we alone see it done.
Ten more clicks and a cross in the road,
success just took another dip in the commode.
My wife (the little lady) doesn't cook much any more,
and I do most of the cleaning.
My sons are the one's having the fun,
who cares about your political leanings.
For a while I thought I'd made it,
in fact I actually had.
If I have to write a few more of these updates,
I'll end up just like my dad.
Success is expressed in relative terms,
are you alive and well and happy?
In ten more years will you have the same fears,
or have thrown them off short and snappy.
Success to me is a fleeting thing,
if you don't believe me, just ask the king.
If that's not enough, then kiss my ring,
and consider yourself a success.