Category: Poetry

That scent still lingers in my sorrowful nose,
My hands can still feel that gorgeous brown hair,
The presence is faux as it can get, but I’m glad its there.

I’m glad I can still be kissed in my dreams,
And that familiar voice speaks when the evenings are still.
I’m glad for my love, albeit its object is no longer real.

Some say love dies when distance is great.
Others say time can extinguish the flame.
My lover’s been long gone; my love is just the same.

When my heart starts to pang and I get short of breath,
When tears from my eyes, memories start to jerk…
I try to stay calm and remember – my love has gone only to work.

The secret to life is blatant, it’s exceptionally clear,
It essential and its friendly – in fact it may be right here.

It is loving and caring, it smiles and it laughs,
It stays up late and takes mid-day naps,

The secret to life, sometimes has a bad day,
Sometimes it leaves when you want it to stay.

This abundant thing is emotional and kind,
It’s adorned sometimes with jewelry, sometimes with a mind,

It sleeps and it wakes…
It gives and it takes…

But always this thing, wields life day to day…
It has the power to work and the power to play…

The secret is the person; the friends you’ve come to know…
They are the ones you live with; the ones who with you grow…

They are the nameless faces, who smile in their car…
It is important to remember – it is they – and they are.

I’m a seventy year old man,
With a sagging face that’s bearded white.
Every time I close my eyes…
I relive the horrible fight.

My hands are feeble,
My body’s failing,
My mind is lacking,
Yet my thoughts still prevailing.

My family’s long since left me,
With tears and a mangled heart,
I retreated to a bench…
It sits solidly in the park.

I have found it to be more stable…
Than the world that’s left me behind.
It is surely more compassionate…
Than any man that I could find.

It listens to my stories,
It waits for me at night,
And in the cold embraces me…
As I dream about the fight.

It understands my pain,
The pain it too has known…
We were not always friends…
It was once left all alone.

It knows the cold of the night,
And it knows the cruelty of mankind.
It’s aware of how they’ll use you,
And how they’ll disregard your mind.

The park bench cares, or so I think,
It tries to ease my pain,
And though it is not living,
I love it just the same.

Some people say park benches…
Do not have souls – not me.
I have found more love in my park bench,
Then I’ve ever known in humanity.