I would be lying

I would be lying if I said I didn’t care.

If I said it didn’t hurt.

I would be lying if I pretended not to notice you there.

Lying to myself, because it is readily apparent to you

That I love you.

I don’t know how you know and how it’s hidden from me some days.

Each day begins with you; you’re on my mind and in my heart, so

I guess I know too that you love me.

Why would I be lying if I spoke roughly to you?

How would I be lying if I said some unkind word?

When would I be lying if I didn’t tell you each day how much you mean to me.

Let me not wait till you’ve gone to state my truth to you each waking hour.

Let me not lie to myself that I am without you.

Let me say how much you do each day for our family, our marriage, our home.

Let me not lie.

There is no time for it.

– Small town boy

Advertisements

If you were me

I'm stymied, I guess.
I haven't written for a while,
After criticism and censorship.
The problem I have is this:
Each word, each thought has been dug up,
Dug up from the internal (and eternal) junk pile that is my recollection.
These thoughts are mine, I own them, and yet…
I permit the criticism of others dear to me to destroy my writing; my decision.
And so I approach each new thought with their censorship in mind; don't dig too deep.
Ok, so maybe I didn't think through enough the offending thoughts.
Maybe they were right, but still I must admit a stricture on my thinking.
And so now I begin again to write.
Unable to keep these thoughts buried, I must present them to you.
You have a right to your opinion.
I have a right to mine.
But should I publish for all the world to see?
Do I needs/must take into account the effect on others,
Or do I only have obligation to my Self to write what I feel?
Who reads this stuff anyway?

– Small town boy

The Mouse, the Louse, and the blue nosed pig

Said the mouse to the louse, Let’s get out of the house,

And go see the pig with the sky blue snout.

I dont know why, you need  to see the pig,

Is this frivolous or is it something big?

I want to se the marvelous pig,

Not because he does a jig,

Or because he eats a fig, no

It’s something we share.

Have’t you noticed?

You haven’t the remotest,

There’s something about us,

It’s something we share,

Something deep inside us,

Something others may not see,

You don’t see it in Me, but

Because he realizes it in him,

Discerns something of the universe, something kind, some empathetic response,

I see it brightly in him,

He sees it loudly in Me.

I love him and he loves me,

We just feel better when we’re tigether, you know?

Do you have someone like that? Said the mouse with an orange tail.

I do, said the louse, it’s you.

Then come along and we will go see the pig with the blue snout.

OK, I ‘ll come, but first I must paint my toenails yellow.

– Small town boy


Humble

I am very humble, I’m the most humble person I know.

Everyone says how humble I am, they want to be me. 

My manner and speech scream humility. 

You can hear me miles away.

It is better being humble, and I am the best!

I used to be prideful and full of myself, but now it’s humble that rules my day.

If you want to be humble too just sit down and be quiet and listen to me, don’t interrupt when I’m talking, what I say is important

If you want to be humble like me…

Well, no one can be humble like me.

Humble pie, that’s my dish.

Be (me) ever so humble…

Humility is next to… something, I forgot.

I’m always first because the last shall be first!

I have so many pictures of myself, it’s humbling.

Don’t be afraid to be humble, stick up for yourself.

You’re great!

With great humility, Lloyd The Great


– Small town boy

(This poem is not about any one, living or dead, or running for President)

Lost Connection

It has only been a year.

I knew her for a year.

She unlocked my life, long enough to extract ten stories

From 1948, from Coleridge, Nebraska,

Where my father took his own life

And sealed those memories in the shadow

That was my life.

We found each other only one year ago,

We discovered a common history, she knew she had Ovarian Cancer and that it was terminal,

She had known it for years 

She shared her bravery and grace with me for one year of my life,

And that changed everything.

Now I am a writer.

Now I share my stories with others.

I have lost my connection to Coleridge and a dark part of my youth,

But not before shining a bright light on those memories that were wonderful,

Those memories not tarnished by my father,

And my heart came to life.

Thank you Verlyne.

God bless and keep you and let his face shine upon you now.

I love you and am a better person for it.

  
– Small town boy

On the edge of the ocean

On the edge of the ocean is where the sea nymphs play.

Roiling waves reach for the sky and fall to the deep. 

Horsetails abound if the offshore winds join in the frolic.

Swells from far offshore arrive to meet the waves retuning from the beach and lift higher and higher until gravity pulls them down to crash in beautiful whiteness racing again to the shore.

My life is better because I witness the sea nymphs dancing and prancing by the beach.

My heart lifts as waves lift and rejoice in the curl unoccupied by surfers.

Calm ascends over my soul as turmoil engulfs the edge of the great Pacific and repeats the crescendos in the bright sunlight.

Does a wave crash if no one there to watch and be amazed? Is the surf performing for me today?

I yearn for winter storms to churn up the sea so I can seem to sit precariously atop each wave till it falls.

I fall back in my recliner, spent, and hopeful.

Thank you Neptune for sending your silly, sweet, laughing sea nymphs,

On the edge of the sea.

  

I’m not less of a man

I’m not less of a man, or less human,

because I can’t remember your name,

because I’m distracted when I drive,

because I’m incontinent,

because I’m diabetic and have arterial sclerosis,

because I can’t run and walk with difficulty especially climbing stairs.

I could go on, but you get the picture.

I’m not telling you so  much as I’m telling myself.

I’m telling myself that I am, at least, the same man,

if not better for my disabilities that I share with an aging population.

I can still love, even if I  can’t get it up.

I can still go places, even if it is by public transport.

I can still walk my dog, even if it is not with a  backpack up a mountain trail.

I am still here for my family, even with impulse control problems.

I can still dream, even with having to get up every two hours to pee.

I can stll be your friend, though we have to  grow new strategies for us to get together.

And you?

Are you still the human you once were?

Is your heart filled with love?

Do you still enjoy a beautiful fall day, with trees costumed in bright colors?

This is what life has dealt us, we have worked hard to get to this point,

And we have a ways to go yet. You and me, together, in life.

Can we? Be together? Growing old together has become real, but

I’m not less of a man,

I’m just me,

aging.

  
  
– Small town boy, I write in memory of my departed friend, Verlyne Phillip who got me started writing.

I don’t want to write no more

I’m through writing. I’m sick of it.

It makes me feel awful and so many find fault and misinterpret.

I started with story telling, but moved on to free verse.

The farther I dug down to the pit of my stomach,

The darker the result, alienating some,

Causing others to suspect my sanity,

Murmuring, murmuring.

I spent hours, days, weeks not searching,

But being open.

And then, having discovered things,

I shared in an open and honest fashion

And stirred up a great dust storm,

A wasp’s nest.

I erred as I drove forward,

Carelessly searching to test my new insights.

You need to know that I don’t do well in personal confrontation.

I can stand up for myself in calm logical rationalization ,but

When emotions raise the ante,

I tend to fold.

I felt so sure,

And now it I’m sick of it.

I am sick of the hurt it has brought others near and dear.

Should I return to the man I thought I was supposed to be?

Should I march on ignoring the fallout and censorship?

WWHD?

What Would Hemingway do?

  
– Small Town Boy

Autumn

It is the autumn of my life.

A time for harvest, and homecoming.

All things are beautiful in autumn,

The trees, the apples, the pumpkins, and if you are fortunate, the roses.

It is a time to love

Your spouse, your children, their children and if you are fortunate, their children.

Autumn is a time to review life, 

Your parents and siblings, and

Friends who have gone before.

Autumn is a time for thanksgiving,

For your health, for those who loved you,

For your career, for your achievements 

And if you are fortunate, for your relationship with God.

Autumn is a time to prepare for winter 

By forgiving, by preparing, by storing away, by paying up your debts.

Debts from eating, drinking, smoking, hating, and poor judgements.

Winter is coming.

Hibernation.

Rebirth.

I love walking in the October sun, leaves rustling, geese honking on the wing.

I have seen 74 autumns,

And I will see a few more,

So it is a time to reflect, to ready the feast, to gather the acorns, and to bring the family to mind.

I don’t walk as well as I used to, my eyes grow dim, my heart is straining, my kidneys are damaged and I ache in my joints.

But my dog walks with me, my wife and friends give me hugs, my grandchildren shout with joy when they see me.

I am still here Lord.

I love you.

I will come when you call,

But there’s still time,

Time for more mistakes?

   
   
– Small town boy

Holding Hands

While I was meditating

Someone I love, or am learning to,

Held my hand.

A soft caress amidst my deep nothingness;

Interlocked fingers as we join;

One finger rubbing another gently,

Opening and closing in a warm embrace.

One keeping the other warm as cold is detected in the fingers, with love.

The blood rushes to be at the site where touch is, and then returns to the body

To share this touch sensation with others who are interested: the heart, the brain, and the spirit.

All are delicately revelling in a remembered hand clasp of another, a bonding, or an unsaid pledge.

Who is with me while I’m without clothes, thought, and movement?

No one.

There’s no one here but me.

-Small town boy