At sixty seven, close to heaven
time is fleeting faster
death’s round the bend, life has an end
a small miss step could mean disaster
Standing proudly, speaking loudly
seem a distant memory
epidemics and pandemics
friends’ lives but ephemery
murmurings of losing love
sift down from the eaves
cooing, chewing mourning dove
builds with rotting leaves
it is not as if rot
can support a nurturing nest
hatchlings, snatchlings
fitful rest, under mother’s breast
She is still, but her skill
at architecture pales
wind has flung her dear young
ones, unfeathered wing fails
hungry cat craving fat
finds the appetizer
base of tree, soul flung free
to the Great Realizer
to big nest fly in the best sky
with your soul wings spread
There, you’ll find, all are kind
Only problem is you’re dead!
Is writing like fighting?
who wins in the end?
coffee brews and toffee chews
brain jitters, days blend
into night’s fading lights
into the dark mystery
sip your gruel, life is cruel
all you lived is history
slime mold burbles, slithery gerbils,
leaping for the light
quivering masses, lads and lasses
live through drought and blight
what’s the story, Morning Glory?
why so down and blue?
Sun comes up, cat and pup
show that they love you
tails un curling, wings unfurling
take flight to your kin
fear not, tear not, drink your beer not
unconsciousness a sin
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