Clutching Bottle and Pill

Long did I clutch bottle and pill,

Friendship my aching soul to fill.

Such longing in my heart,

Their lie, mask playing a part.

I cried, I tried, to abandon their lies,

Their hold on me, a noose tied.

Free, Free, Why can't I be,

Of this hook, so deep in me.

Deep darkness, Despair, All I see,

Chained down, I want, Can't flee.

Death, Peace of death, Please cover me,

Earthen grave, My only plea.

Stretched out, Damp cold night,

Pain, Punishment, I sense is right.

In deep despair, My head hangs low,

Eyes, Tears, Capturing a glow.

Hands reach to hold my chains,

Scars, History of cruelty, Pain.

Love, Compassion, Shine from his face,

Shackles, Links, Shattering, Falling in our embrace.

tg 2-21-2011

An Old Piano

The old upright piano seems nestled, she wouldn't say it that way, in the debris on the side of the village street. Her top and keyboard were covered in dust and soot from diesel engines. Missing cobblestones attempt to embarrass her as one of her legs is tipping towards the rubble at her feet.

The dust and dirt on her top looks streaked as though tears ran down the angled top. Her many fingers, once bright and clean, now covered in dust try to hide the missing ivory caps on five of her fingers. Fingers that could sense the spirit of the musician even before his long and excellently manicured fingers touched hers, now they are silent.

The genius of Mozart and Bach, Chopin and Beethoven had given life to her beauty of wood and wire. The beauty and flow of the wood fibers would come alive, like the breath of divinity giving life to wood that yielded itself to the saw many years before. Now in her humiliation she gives up this life, like so many strewn around her. Will anyone mourn her passing?

This piece was the result of a photograph from WWII taken from a French village.

Poem- High Flight

Oh I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and danced the skies on laughter silvered wings.
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun split clouds and done a hundred things you have not dreamed of.

Wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence. Hovering there, I've chased the shouting wind along and flung my eager craft thru footless halls of air.

Up, Up the long delirious burning blue I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace where never Lark or even Eagle flew.

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod the high untrespassed sanctity of space. Put out my hand and touched the Face of God.

Pilot MaGee composed the poem beginning at thirty thousand feet and had it complete before he touched down. It was written on an envelope. He died later in a training accident.

Bitter Old Man

Bitter Old Man

The old man is lying on a dirty old metal bed, the sheets unchanged for weeks.

He lies on his side with his knees drawn up, like he did 80 years ago.

The gray on his head is matched by the gray of his life.

He has been alone now for years, abandoned by all, left to his bed and bitterness.

Life is hard and that is exactly what he taught everybody around him.

His wife, stoop shouldered by the burdens and his words, crumbled under his care.

For years she tried to please him, her efforts only gained more scorn and weight on her shoulders.

Children now gone, haven't seen the old man in years.

His son, his namesake, pledged to never see or speak to him, never to enter the house until it was funeral time.

A daughter, broken by suspicion and cursing, still lives broken, trying to make her daddy happy, five or six times since she saw him last.

He knew they needed to know that the world is cruel and the best a man could do was to work all of his waking hours.

Home, he expected all to understand his life and be content that he put food on the table and a roof over their heads.

His words, never from a warm spirit, only the ones that needed to be said, the food is cold, the chores are undone, the wood needs carrin-in.

He expects respect and obedience, cares not to know what troubles live in his home.

All homes have trouble, life is hard and you just put up with it.

On his bed his hands are shriveling and gnarled, evidence of years of toil, toil he thought so unappreciated, work ignored, sweat unnoticed.

Unaware of the words of a mother to her children, words of work by their father, toil to provide food and shelter, long hard days spent on the end of a shovel.

He looks down at his hands and realizes his heart and soul is just as bent and gnarled as they are.

He mumbles in a voice no one can understand, words that seem garbled, "God what did I do wrong?" Life is hard and they had to learn, the world is cruel and unloving. I did what was best.

A message begins to move deep in his soul, he feels uncomfortable, struggles on the hard rusted metal frame bed.

His stomach churns and his legs move to curb the pain.

A voice very clearly and quietly speaks it's message of unwelcome truth.

Today you are alone, alone on your bed, waiting to die, where are your children?

You are choking on the weeds you planted most of your life.

It is now time for you to realize what you have done, and live and die with it.

Even though you lie here abandoned and scared, yes I will be with you.

I will try and help them understand your life and keep them from your pain.
If only you would have tried to reach me, tried a small amount of kindness.
Soon all your pain and ugliness will end.

A Quiet Repose

Rain drops hang off long slender needles, made a brilliant green by droplets no longer clinging to cloud.

The earth beneath the living statues is soft and covered in a blanket of brown needles.

Thousands, millions, the blanket has no pattern to the eye, to the giver they tell of history, of storms and snow, of wind and sun, passing days and months, years and generations.

The scent that rises from the moist blanket mingles with living needles and bark. The fragrance is beyond description but not experience.

Breathe deeply and fill your soul with peace and tranquility as almost blinding rays of sunlight reach you through branch, limb and needle.

Steam escapes from hidden rooms beneath the blanket as the sun warms the earth.

The blanket beckons your wearied body, go ahead, multitudes of creatures have already felt the comfort.

The blanket is thick and soft, your hand presses down and the blanket gives to your desire.

Lay back and sense the blanket give and move to your weariness.

The scent, the warmth, the moisture, they approach and beckon to lay with you.

Soon you are wrapped in comfort that fills your very soul, yea, every cell.

From your repose, looking up, the living statues reach into and then become part of the heavens.

Sleep overtakes and you dream of heaven, a land of pines, smells and sweet comfort.