The Coffee House

We can choose our wives
But a child is a gift
No choice – no voice in the matter
In the beginning who knows what we got?
A Mother Theresa or a Mad Hatter?

You try to love, defend, and feed
As long as life allows it
But sometimes things go wrong
And we sing a bluesy song
But ultimately . . . we carry on.

Yesterday we drove to town
To a special meet
That went incomplete
So we went for coffee instead
And after all was said . . . there was nothing left to dread.

Yesterday I realized how fortunate I am
To have been blessed (and not just stressed)
With the little ray of sunshine given me.

We can choose our wives
But a child is a gift
No choice – no voice in the matter
In the beginning who knows what we got?
A Mother Theresa or a Mad Hatter?

As for me – I was so blessed that today ( 51 years later)
I was able to walk into a coffee house with a best friend
Who I am free enough with . . . to drop the walls
And bare my heart . . . too.

That is a gift beyond measure . . . a heavenly treasure.

Poetry

I took to looking for poetry on the blogs this morning and was sorely displeased with what I found. Now I am almost (not quite) an ancient human being and I came from another era I know, but today’s poetry, forgive my saying, stinks. It is so dark and so dreary it makes even Poe’s stuff seem bright.

Back in the day, even though Vietnam was raging and the draft was on, young people wrote about hope and change (before it became bullshit, Obama)  Dylan led a large crowd and the coffee houses were filled with poets and songsters. The mikes were open to all sorts of greatness (as well as nonsense) . . . but the mood was “WOW” . . . upbeat.

It’s just my personal opinion I know, but I love Dylan and Robert Service and Robert Frost as well as many others. (including Poe!)

Maybe today’s crowd is so intent on being current and different they forgot that, no matter how great their poetry and their music and their art is . . . it is all a language and a language that cannot be understood is worthless. It’s like a preacher speaking in tongues. Who of (less than God) can even understand what the hell he is even talking about.

This poem is for you because it may be that you have not just gotten off the beaten path, but are lost in the jungle of moroseness . . . .

PS If you find what I said offensive, take a look around, read a bunch of poems and try to figure out what the writer is even talking about . . . if you can, more power to you cause this old man sure as all hell can’t . . .

 

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The Rainmakers

anger

 

 

Standing alone
In the freezing rain
Among the insane
There is no pain
There is no gain.

The thrill of the fight
The rush while in flight,
Away we go . . . into the night.

Standing alone
Wanting to scream
But it’s not easy to scream
In this fucked up dream.

Where the bullets are slow
And my barrel is bent.
And my target
Will never stay down.

Standing alone
In the rain
Among the crying, among the dying
Watching war go round.

Again-and again-and again.

 

On The Road To Evermore

chain

As I gaze upon your radiant soul
You live on that faraway plane.
And I see great difficulty adjusting
To this heavy vibration again.

To do-to do
To go-to go
Oh where-oh where?
You do not know.

Like the rest of us who congregate
Upon this plane of pain
You balance between the hall of greatness
And the home of the insane.

What’s your name? What’s your game?
And what is mine as well?
Who will stop to listen?
Who will shun the call to Hell?

A voice that cries within the void
Having no one there to hear.
Will those words just float away
Will they disappear?

The helping hand of our Mother Earth
Reaching down to ease our pain.
Finds rejection for all it’s worth
Again-and again-and again.

But Her teachings are eternal
And her teachings never go.
For they bear the keys to God’s back door
They share His Word via nature’s glow.

Does anyone even hear us? Is anyone even near us?
Does anyone even notice when we shout and scream?
Has the gulf between us grown so wide
They see us living in a dream?

Do they never faintly fain awareness
As they walk their streets of gold?
And they blindly follow fairy tails
That they’ve been told since days of old?

Streets of gold – streets of gold vibrating heavily
Upon a plane of heavenly crud
Mixed in a sea of heavenly mud
Created by the gushing of our Mother’s blood.

What to do? What to do? As we move upon this distant shore
And long for the road to Evermore.
And the keys to unlock their stubborn door.
And welcome them to the land of Evermore. . . for ever more.