Alee

Most people take refuge from the sun,
Hiding under a large shade tree…
Where ignorance grows as a thick green moss,
On the shady side, most alee.

Now ships sail safe in the doldrums,
No discovery, or historical finds…
Men grow another ring in their bark;
Tall trees with no measurable minds.

Celluloid Moons

What a batch of lies I’ve lived,
Influenced by celluloid shit…
Heroes, love, a happy long life;
Contrived in a Hollywood script.

The laughter today; the full moon,
Walking my dog on the beach tonight…
Almost tempered the cruelest hoax:
As seen in the silver screen’s light.

Tornado

Time gathers years like tornados,
Tossing memories and friends to the ground.
Desperately, I grasp the still swirling dust,
Making sense of life’s lost and found.

Tossed words become puzzle pieces,
Rebuilding old poems I’ve penned,
A part of me must survive the storm
Not to shred or fade in the wind.

Erosion

I held for years my sacred soil,
Felt it slip through youthful hands,
I explored the larger universe,
Settling later, in distant lands.

New experiences added value
To my resume and self worth.
Now I’ve totaled the final score;
I so miss that original earth.

Velocity of Moving

There are steps when you relocate;
The very first is making friends.
People change or move away,
Seems the cycle never ends.

Neighbors pair up into families,
We all watch our children grow;
Too soon they’re parents on their own,
While time erases what we know.

Occasionally a youngster’s death,
Will shake the entire town…
Usually it is the legends now
Who one by one, fall down.

Our needs in life are changing,
More foreign products on the shelf;
I do not recognize my town,
I am a legend now, myself.

What Legacy?

What memories will I leave behind
When I leave this planet earth?
No pyramids or opuses,
Or any visible thing of worth!

Yet I may leave something so unseen,
As small as a single house fly.
The descendants of the few I let,
Get away from the swatter’s try.

Maybe I’ll leave just a beetle,
As my legacy to life beyond…
I once plucked his drowning father,
From a stagnate summer pond.

Sounding Board

Thanks for being in my orchestra,
Playing to memories that I hoard.
I was the vocal piano string,
You were the sounding board.

Music is patterned vibrations,
More intense with the written word;
Thanks for the reverberation,
I know, in my world, I was heard