FATHER'S HAND

"A street is no place to play"
you would say as you clasped her
hand, gentle in its unsurety.
Held in the purity of her heart,
she sees you as a leader.

"Look both ways" you would say,
"to be sure that it's okay"
And she stand toes-to-curb erect,
able to detect the proper moment
that she will follow her leader.

"Hold my hand" you assure her,
your tender flower with the enthusiasm
of a sponge; waiting to sop up all
that you pour before her. She looks up
and smiles. "You lead, Daddy."

Lessons learned at her father's hand,
the kind of man she wishes to grace her life,
when she is ready to become a wife.
Standing at the end of this magnificent aisle,
she'll take your hand. Walking together once again.

All in the name of her father's hand.



Walt

WASTED TIME

Seconds tick.
The tympany of lost moments
left to linger in the anteroom of thought.
In the expanse of eternal existance,
we offer resistance to the passing of days,
hoping to delay their demise; returning with
each new rise of the sun. But, when we are done,
will we be remembered for all we strived to be?
Or will we be forgotten in the unmarked grave
of obscurity? Our procrastination is telling.
Time's a wasting. There's no tasting success
until we kick up our heels and initiate.
Tick, tick, tick,...



**For micro poetry's prompt, "AND I QUOTE..." - "If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin." ~ Ivan Turgenev


Walt

AUNT JANE

Floating in a sea of her own perspiration,

she clutches the bed sheets like a life preserver.

Vacant is her stare, a weapon of every ache and pain

ingrained in her broken heart.

Showing little life; her eyes clench

closed to the world of familiarity,

a similarity to the other residents

who have found themselves left

to languish in lassitude.

Aunt Jane appears to be asleep,

tears seem to weep through her slumber.

The touch of a tender hand is all

that stands between life and the abyss.

A gentle kiss on a timeworn cheek

eyes flutter to a bleary peek

at the face inches from hers.

“How are you Aunt Jane?”

Her tired eyes smile briefly.

“Better” she whispers,

turning to her pillow with a sigh.

In that moment, she found recognition.

In her condition, it was more that I had hoped.

You don’t care that you’ve been forgotten.

You embrace that brief flash of lucidity

and accept that life still caresses her heart.

Walt

MEET ME

Meet me where memory encounters moment,

dream melds with certainty,

and loss is rendered impotent.

Marie Elena

CROSSROADS (A sonnet for my cousin, with love)

Psalm 139:16. … all the days ordained for me were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

James E. Powers, Jr. 

September 23, 1952 - November 19, 2010

He stands between the living and the dead,
as ailing lungs no longer understand
the expectations of a heart in dread,
not willing to let go of all it planned.

Though comatose, his mind exerts its will,
Not giving up, nor knowing how to cope;
As loved ones, keeping vigilant, instill
An ember of illuminating hope.

Sad we cannot return to days of old,
Of playing ‘til the streetlights called us home;
Now, heart-in-throat, we watch events unfold;
Our desperate pens add chapters to his tome.

Yet, God imparts His own life-giving breath,
to give eternal life that transcends death.

Marie Elena
 
"...  just around the corner from the light of day"  The Boss

You lost the battle to breathe earth's air this morning, but gained eternal, celestial air.  You are loved, and always will be.  See you on the other side, Punk.

HOLDING THE GIFT FOR ANOTHER YEAR

A gift so given, entrusted,

to be held for as long your hands can hold.

When we were presented with this prize,

we weren't sure what to do with it,

but we knew it would take a lifetime to learn.

It came with no instructions; no manual for success.

Just a trust that you would do the right thing

as you had come to recognize it.

There were times people tried to show you,

but you found that you could figure it out.

You would fall flat on your face sometimes,

only to pick yourself up and keep going.

You would leave little pieces of yourself 

wherever you went; spreading your joy

through the wonder of your "toy".

Yours from the day you were born, 

no need to be forlorn, it's a happy day. 

You've held your gift for another year,

and those who know you, hold you dear.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARIE!

Walt

POETIC NURTURE (Pathetic Future)

Life went on in a downward spiral,

a world gone viral and lacking in decorum, no forum for discourse, 

just the forces of nature in coercion with the latest version of humanity without sanity.

The vanity of every man, woman and child had taken a wild turn, spurning tradition and
heading on amission to destroy all good things. Presidents and Kings, lacking in insight,
fight for their agenda, hardly mending fences and fostering the pretense that they strive
for the common good. But, no man had the ability to change things, no hope was ever
offered. We asked not what we could do to achieve that city on the hill amidst a thou
sand  points of light. All we did was fight. In a country of excess, we came to lose the
ability to express, we would digress, a less civilized purpose; a banal circus of
illusionists and clowns. Cities and towns, centers of populations and industry,
armies of force and destruction laid barewithout care.
The inevitability of a
world wide revolution,
a universal solution

to pollution and
hunger, homelessness
and hopelessness,

brought all the
problems to the
common man
to solve. We 

had evolved into 

survivors, alive 

for each other; 

sister and brother,

Father and mother.

Pulling together in

the same direction.

Not striving for per-

fection, but working

to keep the peace.

Poets became the keepers of wisdom, wordsmiths

and scholars, knew it got better before every verse. But first we needed 

to join our hearts and minds to find our footing; a good way to start. No longer were
we right of left.Conservatives and Liberals ceased to exist. Republican and Democrat
were not viable concepts.Too bad we had to destroy all we held dear to get to
here.          Maybe          in          the          future,          we'll          remember.

Walt

THE MEANING OF TOMORROW

"There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great,
and no tonic so powerful as expectation of something tomorrow"
~Orison Swett Marsden

Tomorrow.
The promise of a new day,
wrapped in a verdant wish.
A day to which we look forward,
with the anticipation of a child
on Christmas Day. To say
tomorrow is only a day away,
is to say our future is limited.
Given the depth of the cycle of life,
we look at every new day as a tomorrow.
Expand your horizon; seize this day
and every day here after. Lace it
with laughter and joy, for tomorrow
holds life in its hands gently.
The promise.
Tomorrow.

Walt