The Child Inside

The childhood path beckoned; serene, canopied
Come walk for a while for I sense you have need
So leaving the worries of life in my car
I strolled into shadows and hadn't gone far

When silence was broken by laughter of glee
I looked to the sound and I saw the old tree.
The rope, a bit frayed, like a pendulum swung
Arced over the river, the old tire still hung.

The laughter, cut short as the boy cannon-balled
And chuckles escaped from my heart. I recalled
The summertime afternoons spent at the tree
Then turning, I savored the lost memory

Continuing on, down that path of my youth
Ahead, there it stood; like an old giant's tooth
Etched deep was a heart I had carved with my knife
When that ancient oak had stood tall, full of life

Strong storms and bright lightening bolts shattered its breast
The heart and initials were carved there in jest.
But Fate's sense of humor oft' borders on droll
That girl, long ago, became part of my soul.

I walked thru' the past till the sun bid goodbye
While thoughts of my childhood brought tears to the eye
My worries had wafted away with night's breeze
To leave my heart lighter and soul at its ease.

Don't live in the past, but don't leave it behind.
The paths of our lives are a part of mankind.
The child living there should not wither and wan
But grow in your heart, and there, always remain.

Life's Path

The path begins upon Time's sands,
E're shifting from the merest act.
A mystery tho' finely planned
Trod from unknown to firmest fact.

And with each step there grows, behind
A stone, a boulder, hill or mount
Of life and history defined
By footsteps we no longer count.

For unlike oceans constant waves
Which grinds the huge to tiny grains.
Our past grows larger till our graves
And hills or mounts are what remains

To mark our passage through our days.
Perhaps a guide, or hindrance;
A darkened stone which blocks the ways.
The shame would be, you gave no chance

To those who follow us through life.
And tred the path of sand, unsure,
To unclear futures, joy or strife.
I plead, "Leave mounts which shall endure."

Old Man

A wrinkled brow once smooth with youth and ignorant of time
Is furrowed deep o're steel gray eyes sunk back into his face.
Thin hair, age whitened, crowns what once was visage thought sublime
And strange glass orbs, perched on a nose, look odd and out of place.

A chin of chiseled stone is now replaced with two or three
Weak mounds of flesh which quiver now and then in silent rage.
All this upon an aching, frail and wizened neck, I see
Skin weathered, much the worse for wear; surrounds bones like a cage.

Broad shoulders, stooped and rounded now, remain within his mind
Two work gnarled, calloused hands, now have a rough sandpaper touch
Clothes hang upon this frame and seem too large and unrefined
'Twas yesterday a young man but tomorrows come to such.

He stares at me each morn and nods his head, it seems, with glee.
With unbelieving awe and wonderment upon my face
I stare right back and recognize what has become of me.
The pennants of long life are worn with pride; not sad disgrace.

Perspectives

Precariously perched upon its past
A Cypress cabin sat above the mist
Beside a glass-flat stream within the swamp
Where bullfrogs sang and alligators hissed.

Its blackened window-eye looked out upon
A finely crafted porch, all railed in white,
And gentle sloping roof which blocked the sun
Until the blush of dusk gave way to night.

One knows not time within its plastered walls
As days waft by, unnoticed from within.
Simplicity of life and time to pause
Away from all the pain and death and sin.

A lazy summer afternoon of shade
On that big porch; perched in a rocking chair
And watch your world of nature's fine parade
And thank the Lord above for peace, so fair.

Point of View

The buck went crashing through the woods,
He'd heard a bleat of fear.
He bugled back, to tell the doe
"I'm on the way, my dear".

The hunter, setting in his stand,
His rifle on his knees,
Had waited for a trophy head
To clear that stand of trees.

The buck flew from the forest path
Across the grassy dale.
His mighty head adorned with horns
From which his rivals quell.

The hunter, looking through his scope
Had heard the buck in flight.
And as the buck crossed o're the field;
The hunter thought, "just right!"

He aimed and fired one time, then twice
He had his trophy now.
The buck continued to his doe.
The hunter missed, somehow.

Great disappointment on his face,
The hunter left his stand,
Without the trophy he had sought
Dejected and unmanned.

What we consider failures in
This life are up to you.
I guess it all depends upon
A creature's point of view.

Who

Who is this being known as me and am I really him?
Or puzzle pieces which don't fit; no matter how I trim.
Regrets and dreams, ingredients, without true measure blend
Into life's bowl, existence formed till soul from body rend.

Do you perceive me as myself or as you think I am?
Am I the person that I know or merely human sham?
My youth was spent in false pursuit of someone I should be.
I've learned through life that subterfuge to self is hurting me.

The self-deception and pretense is futile exercise.
We fool no one with vain attempts to hide from our mind's eyes.
Truths, though denied, remain as true. They must be faced in time.
For only thus can we be whole and souls remain sublime.

Be yourself. Not what others see or want you to be.

Worker's Lament

Our time is spent with work or sleep.
No time to spend with you.
Our money's never ours to keep.
The bills are always due.

Our days off used for catching up
The housework and the yard.
We bathe the cats and wash the pup.
I life really this hard?

On through each month and week and day
We strive to do our best.
I hope when we are 95,
We start to get some rest.

We bitch and moan and cry a lot
And argue pointless views.
But, hey, our plans are going hot.
Real soon we'll get our dues.

So carry on, I know it's hard
This constant race for cash.
By standing still, we just discard
Our lifelong hopes as trash.