The lost art of conversation.
I want a conversation that speaks to the soul,
that leaves me thinking ,captures me whole,
give me theories and philosophies
offer opinions and summaries,
I want debates , tete-a-tetes
discourse , thought-out arguments,
real themes , solid issues
topics I can sink my teeth into,
make me sad or give me laughter
make me dwell on it two months later,
conversations to inspire awe
leaves me wanting
to come back for more...
I’m Still Here
Im still as different as I always was.
I'm just doing me, and I give no apology.
Maybe I just never listen to what they tell me;
I listen to my God as he pulls my heart strings,
or does my heart just fallow me?
The times have changed but I stay the same.
Maybe this is rebelion or maybe this is fear.
But one thing is certain.
Im still here.
Each New Day
I hear the alarms ring,
And wonder what the new day will bring.
It could bring coffee and school,
Or a new adventure that is really cool.
It could bring laughter or tears
It could bring your greatest fears.
It could take you off on an adventure,
Or make you feel great pleasure.
You might cry,
You might fly.
The day may make you happy,
It may make you sad.
Or somewhere in between,
and see a face that makes you glad.
It could bring a night by the fire,
Or a fun practice with the choir.
It could be a long day at work,
It could be when someone is a jerk.
It could be the day that ends your life,
It could be a day filled with strife.
It's well possible that you breathe your last,
It's well possible to be the day you get a cast.
Maybe today you watch a movie,
Or going out and getting something groovy.
Today could bring destruction,
Today could be full of instructions.
For each new day has something to do,
Now go out and enjoy it, will you?
Ticking clocks
Our veins can catch like pulleys;
Like ticking clocks, they snare—
Hold your hands steady, now, love,
Machines require care.
Generously, carefully,
We oil our different parts;
They murmur of perfection
And metronome our hearts;
Others say, “I’m broken, proud,”
And tout their grinding gears;
Refuse to say, but clear as day
They’re pointing—“it hurts here.”
My darling, you remember
That bent, broken is not;
But my love, don’t you forget—
Don’t let yourself stay caught.
The Duck and the able
Whose duck is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite happy though.
Full of joy like a vivid rainbow,
I watch him laugh. I cry hello.
He gives his duck a shake,
And laughs until her belly aches.
The only other sound's the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.
The duck is able, ideal and deep,
But he has promises to keep,
After cake and lots of sleep.
Sweet dreams come to him cheap.
He rises from his gentle bed,
With thoughts of kittens in his head,
He eats his jam with lots of bread.
Ready for the day ahead.
While I Run (or Why I Bother)
I was gearing up to go.
Someone asked why I’m so slow.
“Running is an exercise.”
(I take it for scoping skies.)
Some days earthworms just abound.
I dare you to step around.
Turkey, snake, and deer I see;
they’re quite bored with li’l old me.
Once sensations I took down.
Here are some that I had found:
I saw swarms of frenzied gnats;
heard frenetic, angry yaps;
smelled mimosa, syrup-sweet;
felt a gentle, cooling breeze;
tasted naught - no salty sweat:
must not have pushed myself yet.
The Good Old Days
Sometimes I remember
the good old days,
Waiting for my friends
To come and play,
Playing hide and seek,
Until our parents call us,
At sundown.
Silently playing UNO and board
Games and sneaking candy.
Spying on our parents while
They were talking.
I still can't imagine
Anything better than that.