A Reflection
• 04/18/24 at 07:32AM •Moderation
is the answer,
to the results of
the excesses in
our short life.
Retired for many years and now re-discovering some writings, from long ago, along with new endeavor to help save my soul.
Moderation
is the answer,
to the results of
the excesses in
our short life.
Dinking wine from bottles
or with glass in hand
makes me feel ecstatic,
makes me feel so grand,
until morning.
Be good to others,
"The good book reads."
yet here we are, engaged in war.
Creatures short,
Creatures tall.
When I was young,
I knew them all.
Round ones,
Square ones, all,
Were the same height,
large or small.
"Makes no sense,"
you said to me.
"To be the same height,
simply can't be."
I said, "You're right,
for the size you see,
looks exactly,
the same to me."
What day
will it end.
When you go
from Love,
to just being,
a friend?
How will I know?
One more moment,
is all I ask,
to be with you again.
One moment is the past.
Memories are pushing out,
from my brain.
Memories of love
and an occasional disdain.
No one prepares you
of the loss of a life.
In my case, it was,
the loss of my wife.
Ive been told to feel lucky,
in this play, life,
for all of the time,
I spent with my wife.
While the information is true,
except for the rest of your life,
please understand, your loss,
cuts like a sharp knife.
Please spare me the platitudes,
they don't help my wife,
and certainly do nothing,
reduce my sadness and strife.
When this life is over,
it will never be,
for I've lost her,
for an eternity.
Love knows no limit,
Love knows no bound.
Love is now missing.
Love cannot be found.
Here I am,
yearning for love.
A friendship to secure,
forever my trove.
What is the life,
which we feel each day?
Should we join in
or find another way?
Words written,
then read as we
become smitten,
for what we see.
The words are so many,
I write down a few.
How do I capture them,
When I think of you?
Words appear in a mass
of those I must undo,
to capture all the meaning.
It's what Poets will do.
Writing of words, over time,
searching for one or two,
finding words which will rhyme.
Words pouring out, so quickly,
those sublime, one more time.
Writings will fade, after ink
becomes old, with paper brittle,
thoughts now forgotten, they sink.
No one reads; very little
as I say now to you,
no matter the day it's
here now for my friend, you.
Life can be funny,
Life may be bland.
If you enjoy laughter,
you must understand.
Hands of red,
heart of gold.
Telling this story,
will never get old,
unless our daily routine,
which is done in life,
is useless work,
with little strife.
When I was young
and very small,
I discovered,
a small door behind a wall.
The door about 3 feet high,
and 2 feet wide,
was found behind a wall,
in the basement, the right side.
The door with a door knob,
was locked, with a key.
No markings on the lock,
which I could see.
I played in the basement,
every day,
never seeing another
there to play.
One time, after dinner,
I'd gone to the basement.
I fell asleep, waking to
a sad lament.
I wish I knew someone,
I could play,
with, for I was lonely,
almost everyday.
The noise was coming
from the small door.
I knocked, saying,
please tell me more.
(continued)