To the things left behind

A long and arduous journey In search of fame and money With friends and foes There were oh so many Cradled this place that we all now cherish With the sweat of our brow lovingly did we nourish What’s the future no one knows For we know one day we will all perish A day comes when you leave things behind In search of a new challenging grind Anywhere the people may go The memories still stay fresh in the mind The tremors have rocked the foundation Of the very thing that was once our creation Though things may never be the same Yet one hopes and prays for a resurrection

The Page Turner

As I start to write Some lines scribbled in rhyme The poetry just ain’t right Unlike Paul’s Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and thyme Countless leaves to waste Unfinished like an aborted child This poetry has no taste My art seems to have gone wild Impregnating every virgin page This Casanova’s one night stand The heavens have come down with rage Yet no commitments for the golden band Good providence eventually prevails Needn’t write anywhere hereafter He’s found the page that’ll end his travails The poetry’s right, the pen and page live happily thereafter