Tag: Poetry

The Western World has been at waar,Yes, WAAR, and spelled correctly;It’s something men did once abhor,But now must deal directly.This WAAR you’ve seen expand and grow,It’s neither slight nor trite;In fact, it’s something we all know—That Women Are Always Right! © Richard Williams

Before you were in puberty, you had a wish quite strong.That you could not abide replies that said that it was wrong.The wish was simply this—a pony, just your very own.You often pleaded for it—but replies were set in stone.Adulthood came, and with it came a succinct plea for love.But

As an adult, of any age, how young are you?By that I mean, how closely do you think things through?Like, on the ladder of success, which you have tried,What rung did you achieve, completely satisfied?That is my point. At what point do you know success?If you are in the right

I guess I could do this—so what harm would it do?I reckon since he did it, I can do it too.But, hey, the street is pretty clear—c’mon, let’s race.I tell you I can do this, done without a trace.I know, I know, but what the heck, I’m going to try.Okay,

To each and every woman who will read this piece,Be cognizant how women’s power has found release.The list is ever growing, in transcendent roles,Quite varied in ascension, numerous in goals.Most of you will but shrug, this not affecting you,But yes it does—innately—things you women do.The point I wish to make—the

This moment of Easter is here for a moment, you know;In just a brief moment, its import and message will go.You know what its message is, and its importance to us;But, with or about it, we rarely will choose to discuss.We leave that for sermons, the themes we have all

Palm Sunday is the open door to what you should discern;It is the open expose designed for you to learn.It shows in succinct detail in a telescopic rangeThe sorry fact that human nature has not seen much change.The wheel that squeaks the loudest is the first to get the grease.And

I lost a friend last week, a friend I hadn’t seen in years;A friend who never knew how much a friend he was to me.For he went his way, I went mine, the way each lifetime steers;Although I wonder now how much we govern what will be.You reach out in

I know you recall there was once this one antWho decided to move an old rubber tree plant,If all he had was hope, (that’s what we’re told),That had to be some hope, in accents bold.But what that hope was made of, not a clue;A fork-lift, or a hoist—each one would

Is there a finite point in life where we achieveA level of achievement God would have us see?Of course, we cannot know that, even thus believeThat life itself is ordained, what will be will be.How many did you influence along the way?Perhaps one of those was the finite point we

What causes evolution? Honestly, what does?What brings it to what is today from what it was?It’s Nature’s way–allowing species to exist;A safeguard for prolonging life—sheer death, if missed.All this is known, but…what triggers this dire change?Most all these needed changes have a narrow range,The size, strength, shape, and form essential

On a bright early morning in Springtime each year,I will get out my clubs and examine my gear,’Do my grips need replacing? Is everything set?Is there anything helpful that I need to get?So, of course, this is ritual—what’s wrong with that?I would bet you don’t start each year just standing

No matter what you did, or didn’t do, on New Year’s Eve,It’s time to contemplate the influence you‘re bound to weave.Oh, yes you will, unconsciously, sans intent or design;And it may be most anything—there is no Bottom Line.Your children are a good example—influence is seen;In fact, they are the living

If I am going to die, it will be by my hand,Not someone else’s. I just hope they understand.You know we’re trapped, we are above the burning floor,You say it was a plane—a big one, Oh, the gore—If we just stand here, we will burn to death, or dieFrom sure

It seems the slightest interruption of routineBrings instant momentary panic on the scene,That momentary jolt will normally not last,But you will feel confused before it will have passed.That we are set in our routines, it’s no surprise;It very much resembles being robotized.But you will argue that it’s not like that

While you may not accept this, still I say it’s true;The things you like to use identify with you.You can’t call it intelligence—just sensory,And if you stop to think about it, you’ll agree.So shoes, or slacks, or blouse, or shirt, or coat, or hat,You feel good ‘cause they feel good

By thunder, if’n yew take to glancin’Yew jes might find me up to dancin’—Cuz visitin’ with a friendly neighborIs whut Ah call life’s bestus labor,‘N Ah cain’t wait tuh see it happin’,‘N thet ain’t jes mah jaws a-flappin’!! New neighbors should be askin’ ‘bout ya,But keep ‘em askin’, they could

I’d like to talk about this Murphy;s Law,That anything that can go wrong, it will.Why must it be something that rubs you raw?Why must it be something that irks you still? We joke about it all the time, it seems,But are we really joking? Think of it.We often want to

You know the routine, so get with it, right now.I don’t want to hear that you do not know how.Okay, now I get it—that gives me a kick—You know with this group you are not the top pick.Where you’ve been before, you were always top dog,And now you’re afraid you