Tremblin' arm shakin' on its comfort cane
  to guide old, awkward steps

Hair on her head dully grayed
  with a frothy crown

Neck skin saggin' like a cow's jowls flappin' while chewin' on its cud

tremble
shake
step
thump

She slowly prodded along
  to make it to her comfort place
  where she would prop her comfort cane
  nearby her comfort bed
  and rest

She said that in her younger day when she walked, her hips would sway

lift
swish
step
sway
Round hips movin' side-to-side
  like a bouncin' ball
  she stepped along
  to make it to her dancing place
  where the big bands played and
  songbirds crooned the songs

I sat down by her bedside and
  asked her if it hurt somehow
  that no more has she youthful vigor

  "Does it hurt when you walk?
  You breathe so deep,
    is it hard to speak?
  Do you miss the round hips that
  used to swish and sway?"

She said she thinks not
  that the past is
  worth much more than
  a backward glance
  even with the pomp and vigor of
  the big band sounds and
  rigor
              of the
                           bee bop
                                          hip hop
                                                         dance

ooh she bopped

She said God blessed her yesterday and
  He blesses her still                     you see
  she has not lost her youth and vigor
  instead, she lent them to me

And when she looks at me today
My round hips go swish and sway!
 

*****************************************
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Honor the Sages

The Temples of Wisdom
That only time can create
Don't know what it's like
To have dust-settled fears.

                                They

Are powerful and knowing.
They would never take
Ownership of dismay.

Why,
Their concrete floors
Support the sages
And their towers stand

                              High,

Looking across
               At the fools
                             Making tracks
                                            To their
                                                           Magnificent doors

They are indeed happy
               When we all show up.

They are humble and
Greet each visitor
With understanding.

They wait patiently for
Ignorance to arrive and
Work itself out, and
Then go,
Exiting wise, and
Taking its place
Alongside the sages.
 

************************
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Soup Kitchen

I thought I was really getting somewhere.
But it was just some silly, kitchen souped-up dream
  I had waiting in this long line to be fed the day’s share,
  the substance of which doesn't even
  speak my name and ask me to taste it.
Guess I'll have to fake it.

Yeah, I’m getting someplace now,
  right up there to that big, ole table, holding
  the thin and long since gone cold spread that
  these kind souls had me in mind while they
  prepared but forgot to ask, how I like it.

I’m getting there so I guess I shouldn’t complain.
They like it when you grin instead, telling them
  with a built-up smile how pleased you are to be
  standing in this worn-out line with those who
  didn’t dish the pressure out—but couldn’t take it.

Well, I’m here now.  I have made my way
  to what’s left of the millions of broken pieces
  of the dreams that fell and spread across these
  long tables, then swept up without even a glance
  by those who share warm beds at home
  with their wives and husbands,
BIG,
              STRONG
Palaces of love and care, drowning the sounds
Of this cold world, and keeping them high and away
From the depths of the homeless grave,
Leaving behind,

                                             me,

With a frown and a sad song,
Singing my strong praises
To the heaven above, speaking to the Father,
And asking Him nicely,
Take me home.
 

*****************
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Poet Laureate

Say, "Dance!"
And they Tap for you.
I tried to get them to Tango.
"Pitiful novice!
Try that trick once more."

"Sing a song!" you say.
And a perfect melody is rung.
I tried to get them only to hum.
And I looked down at them,
Soaking into the page.

Stroke your mighty pen and
Champions appear!
They worship you.
I drip my ink with wasted sweat,
Not a rescue warrior in sight.

Your words are clever, thoughts clear.
Magic
Surrounds your page.

They carved your name in the stone of greatness.
The mighty Halls of Fame cried out,
"The Laureate has come!"
And they begged to echo your verses.

My entire collection never won a single award.
And so I come to you, my Poet Laureate,
And ask you plainly,
Would you lend me your score?
I'd like to teach my words to dance...