Give me an evening drink;
give me my evening meal;
give me time to think;
give me time to feel.
Please grant my appeal
before I, shipless, sink
from my weekly ordeal.
Faster than a blink,
save me from the real,
pull me from the brink,
give me time to feel.
If I may be so bold
to trouble you in bed…
You who is now cold,
you who is now dead.
Where would you rather be instead
of with the divine fold?
What dreams were in your head?
What did your future hold?
What life might you have lead?
Would you want your story told,
you who is now dead?
Build an altar out of wood,
a foundation for the fire,
that with a little luck should
climb ever, ever higher.
Next strike the spark – a fickle sire
whose progeny could be quite good
or a calamity most dire.
Then where once your altar stood,
now breathes a fledgling pyre
that potentially could
climb ever, ever higher.
As evenin’ creeps ever more near,
it grows all the more stark:
the crushing grip of my fear
of the deeper dark.
Then, shivering, I wait and hark,
praying that I live to hear
the call of the morning lark.
For I can feel the sear,
the burning, midnight mark,
of the hungry, hungry leer
of the deeper dark.
I once remarked down by the sea,
peppered white with frothy foam,
“My dear friend, can’t you see
that life is like a poem?
There’s the rich and fragrant loam,
each church-goer on bended knee,
and the cluttered cabinets in your home…
Each child giggling in infancy
and every moldy, musty tome
proves yet again, my dear, to me
that life is like a poem.”
Don’t rely on happenstance
to change your sorry state.
Stand up, take a chance,
and make your own fate.
Why do you even wait
to take the time to dance
or treat your sweet palate?
Wake yourself up from the trance
before it is too late
to live a little and romance
and make your own fate.
There was a little cloud
that one day caught my eye
and stood apart from the crowd
as it drifted through the sky.
It looked about to cry,
wore a pale-white shroud,
and let out a deep sigh.
And though it was not loud
I couldn’t help but spy
that it seemed a little proud
as it drifted through the sky.
On this summer night
there’s something in the air
which is a delight
and that’s a gift, most rare.
I lean back and stare,
take in all the sights,
and live without a care.
And I know that tonight’s
a gift beyond compare
‘cause I’m living in the light
and that’s a gift, most rare.
A (wise) man of two faces 