Belly to the bar
this is the place i could go
dancing in destiny’s afterglow
in a forest of folk and lore
cardboard sayings for a cure
no race to be won in the land of papered, big, book, restraint
in this dance life strolls with a limp
sobering how i get around…when drink is down
iron seats bequeathing intimate strangers
all making calls…24 hours a day…to other confidential visitors
each of us with our own bumper sticker philosophy
Pills, pills,pills, such a conflict of human interest.
Such a toxic crutch.
A hazardous muse with a bitter tongue and addicting touch.
Such as piles of gathered leaves.
The drug keeps giving and giving…
Until the harvester falters to the need.
“…who once thought, as we did, that humility was another name for weakness. They helped us to get down to our right size. By their example, they showed us that humility and intellect could be compatible, provided we placed humility first. When we began to do that, we received the gift of faith, a faith which works. This faith is for you, too.”
Where humility formerly stood for a forced feeding on humble pie, it now begins to mean the nourishing ingredient that can give us serenity.”
Fools and Folding Money
What is it that possession has…
What ownership can I go without…
Indeed my wants have always a need’s soul…
peppered in doubt.
There is no certainty for a tomorrow.
Just today, if we have made it thus far.
Humility will not arrive in a borrowed car.
While we look at ourselves and see…
we cannot defeat age.
A shallow poet’s rage.
It is a daily reprieve,
swapping want for need.
An inventory built on simplicity.
Today, a promise of more grit…less glory.
“There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.” -Ernest Hemingway
There are far worse things to be then…old and foolish in sobriety!
Old and Sober
I’ve cleaned hell for you.
Misery I gave a makeover.
Affliction I made a lover.
Hades became my mother.
Deep in the swell I cannot forget hell’s bell.
The others do not look like me.
But they have seen the chains that have not let me be.
Everyday I think myself free.
I must remember my master holds the key.
Behind all the anonymous trees.
Knotted limbs pointing.
Knuckled ancient index fingers directing me back.
Faithful flasks distorting the facts.
The older the fiddler the sweeter the tune.
Dear devil in the facts,
no one chooses a room without a view.
Sinful saints are not born of your brew.
This is nothing but a masterful path…
persons praying in their own liquidated aftermath.
Sobering fact…this daily reprieve the further the distance,
the more the need.
old and sober.