NINA

“NINA”

We used to walk together, some early mornings, sometimes evenings.
Without words being exchanged but an occasional glance at each other.
She’d sometimes would walk at a faster pace ahead of me
I think it was to test me and see if I would come to her.
When I would go pick her up for this stroll
She would always look so royal in her black and tan “couture”.
I could see her excitement in her dark Latina brown eyes
when I’d come by to pick her up.
We both knew our walks were only ours
in these alone shared moments.
Around our quiet neighborhood we would stroll,
stop to baptize only those special mailboxes.
We’d come to this centralized community park and rest.
I would lay my weary and deteriorating hips onto the grass
she would sit next to me.
Our heads would turn like owls on their perch, back and forth,
together in-sinc watching people or cars going by.
Then I would lay back on the grass looking up to the sky
She would do the same next to me.
With her four large Rotweiler paws pointing at the sky,
No shame of showing her teats,
Just enjoying the clouds hovering slowly by
while I’d name the figures that I’d see
Form among their cumulous attire.
I would point and call them out to her,
"..Hey ‘Nina’, don’t you think that one looks
Like you, but with angel wings?"
I would rub her belly as her tongue would hang out to one side.
Her panting and her eyes would show me the pleasure this all felt.
We bonded like this many times.
I’ll remember her this way.
Seems, now, not too long ago
her owner and her moved away.
They were now hiking the mountains
and observing God’s hand in another
portrayal of Nature’s array.
I’m happy for them.
He e-mailed me the other day
To tell me she passed away.
I went outside today and looked up at the sky.
With black and tan colored wings
I think I saw her soar by.
Nina, my friend, enjoy, soar, I miss you.

Girls are Different

When I was ‘little’, when I was ‘young’
I remember feeling and seeing how a girl was so different.
Her hair was longer, her face was prettier,
Her hands were softer and untouchable without permission.

I would stare at a girl with innocent desire and ‘awe’.
She would capture my male curiosity, with her pigtails
With her tiny dress and those wondrous shapely legs.

I was told I could look but don’t touch.
When on occasion, mostly by accident,
my hand would rub up against hers
Or I was aloud to hold her hand in ‘recess’
a game I would insist on playing,
I would reflect upon that moment of touching her hand.
Later when in bed at night, I would dream about that incidental moment.

When older, I would admire girls at a distance because of shyness.
Their hair seemingly more flowing, their faces more distinctively prettier
and their hands, their legs so much more desirable, now lustfully so.
They are distinguishably, visually, so different from my maleness.
Then at a later age I became aware of how their minds and their thoughts
were so different than mine. I think I always knew how distinctively different and untouchable girls were.

Since, I have had the pleasure of having a relationship with some women.
Gently I’ve cuddled a few with their permission. With this experience, I’ve become aware that the uniqueness and differences between male and female is not always ‘black and white’. Some characteristics, some views are discernibly more of a ’gray’ issue.
Although women are prettier, their hands their skin still softer, their legs and now, their lovely breasts have caught my attention, they’ve become so much more lustfully desirable.

My shyness has waned now as a man and my understanding and realization of women is that they have always wanted and desired many of the same things that I, as a ’man’, have. Their minds still discriminate information differently, they interpret most with the sensitivity of emotion, primarily. They are more readily willing to nurture and to choose a passive approach which gives balance to some of the polarized opposites of the ’male’.

In the absence of a male parental presence in my rearing, a mother provided me with that nutriment, nurturing, the emotional, the passive approach as an alternative to male aggression. I am fortunate to have been exposed to the balance of male-female, Yin/Yang, in the interpretation of life. I appreciate and cherish my female partner. I still, even in my older years, when my eyes capture their beauty, I see them as I did in my youthful innocence with that romantic appreciation

Nutty Wintry Challenge

Recently, with Mother Nature's visit with that glistening non-sticking flaky snow, indicating that the cold is so brisk that it blows about like desert sand, I‘ve been observing and have been witness with much human angst the depleting destruction of my diligent and concerted efforts at keeping the bird feeders full of seed. These ten feeders, I have placed logistically about in my front and back yards. One is a wooden rustic looking feeder that resembles a doll house hangs from a limb of a tree. Four are manufactured feeders with a transparent midriff and a covered copper top, and the others of varying decorative makeup hanging from curved raw iron cast prongs stuck in the ground. A couple are filled with thistle to welcome smaller blue birds, some filled with multigrain seed that entice the cardinals, blue jays and blackbirds. They now sway about not from wind but from being recently and surreptitiously depleted by those consummate and insatiable, Davy Crockett tailed varmints that normally reside in arboreal domiciles. They have recently challenged me in battle to keeping the feeders full for the intended visitors being my aviary friends. It’s become a battle that has challenged me to become creative as to how to keep these demon representatives (some although irresistibly cute) of the ‘nut world’ from being able to climb up the shafts of the intended ominous looking black iron hangers. They have caused me to formulate a composition that must be develop secretly behind closed doors, beyond the vision of these quad-pedal terrestrials. A composition that I must continuously apply on the shafts of these iron hangers where my feeders hang. A slippery concaction that will remain untenable under all weather conditions where those talons from the varmints feet will be unable to grasp and climb. They will no longer be able to reach and deplete my feeders from the intended feathered friends and will have to gather their own food from their natural habitat. No longer will I peer through slightly ajar curtains or sneak a peak around an open window to try to catch these foes and force me to reach into and refer back to those darken primal acts let alone causing my neighbors to question my pounding upon my picture window in my morning robe that has on occasion opened which I wonder if that is the cause for them 'Davy Croquet hat looking tail wagging theives' to scatter and scurry in fear.

Absence of Pain

Gradually, quietly and most cautiously my morning step, my foot print, is once again showing positive signs of enthusiasm. Carefully I place my foot onto the floor arising from my bed after a joyous recognition that my sleep has been restful. The restless unmitigated pain that for so long had sharply assailed my legs and hips now wanes with welcome solace and soothing dreams. From the very moment of waking, a profound cognizance of the absence of pain, my morning ascends into a sense of creative stimuli that inspires a writ of poetic verse. I am cautious of this moment but I waste not to dwell upon how long it may last and inhale with lustful breath to fill my memory tank so that when the insidious pain may once again pierce this euphoric cloud the strength of this memory will help squash the excruciating pangs of pain.

I feared for so long what was presented to me of replacing my biogenetic hips with prosthetics as one of only two options in relieving the incarcerating pain. The other option was to accept self-medication for my remaining living years which could result in the deterioration of a functioning liver and kidneys and possibly an addiction that would slide me into a state of unpredictable intolerant personality changes toward all my relationships and affecting my lucidity and creativity. I feared not so much the high risk of the surgical procedures and the possibility that I may not have awakened from the artificially imposed sleep, for I fear not ’death’, but the fear of the premature cessation of an unsubstantiated life. Leaving without imparting upon this existence literary writ and memories that may inspire others to perpetuate the understanding that the value of life is to be ‘creative’ in lieu of a vacuous existence or one of destruction. The road I chose was in putting my life in the hands of surgeons that would replace a total pelvic construct and substitute my painful hips with prosthetics. This choice has imposed some sacrifices in my lifestyle which would have arisen anyway as an eventuality through aging. I am now highly appreciative of my choice that has provided me with awakenings in the mornings from my now comforting sleep. The wondrous absence of the nightmarish insufferable pain has won over the battle that had on occassion filled my thoughts with the desire to put an end to the unyielding pain via an otherwise portentous method.

Early Eyes Wide Open

My eyes open earlier more often now from that sleep,
The sleep we all must have at the end of our day.
Some may go to sleep earlier to get up earlier
And some may go to sleep later because their life style dictates.
My eyes now close at the end of the day on my wife’s schedule.
They open much earlier, though, because Life’s too short.

Dreams and thoughts gather quickly in my head
once my eye lids close to rest at the end of my day.
They assemble and replay events, sometimes strangely juxtaposed
from yesterdays or maybe those days yet to come
but they bring back to life the faces of those
that are no longer sharing this space on earth,
At least not in my waking state when my eyes are open in the day.

Lately, I’ve witnessed when my eyes wide open,
Someone from my past stroll by, had not seen them for quite sometime.
Their hair now shades of grey and their eyes gather in folds of skin,
Their walk or gait has slowed and their jeans and shirt are wrinkled,
where once not long ago they would be pressed with straight folded lines
and their collars also stiff with careful and honored pride.

This attention captured by my eyes wide open through the day,
for those that once again enter onto my pathway I’ve not seen for many a day,
Gives me pause to better understand the aging aches and pains upon my limbs,
the wrinkled brow my mirror refuses to reflect and quietly awakens also, with my day.
My eyes now open earlier in the morning, as I wish them to,
so that life does not pass by me as I sleep, my eyes wide open.

Reflection In The Mirror

I looked into the mirror the other day and saw my mother’s face.
Needs to apply more wrinkle cream, I‘d say.

The lower lid and underneath my eyes a darkened area has formed,
It won’t wash away, I think they’re here to stay.

I glare into the dark brown eyes staring back at me
from within this bathroom mirror,
Deep, deep, trying to find who really is in there.

I know what this external shell, now in disrepair looking back at me,
has gone through.
I stare at my reflection deep inside thinking I see those shadows
who’ve held my heart, whose hand held true.

Now this person inside the mirror leers back at me with a querying face
wondering as to why I reach into it’s past.
A small sparkling trickle slowly crawls out from the lower eye lid,
a solemn memory lurks in this tear drops’ shadow, cast.

Two or three days from now if I’m allowed to once again stare into this mirror
After the doctors repair my limbs and provide me with a new beginning,
I commit a promise to this reflecting face,
my love of family and friends will now and forever be my life’s embrace.

Witness and Appreciation

We all open our eyes after a respite sleep and when it’s done we all place our feet down on the ground and start our lumbering of another day.
I look into the faces that pass me by, all stare blankly into the light before them, struggling to find an easier way.

Sometimes when they drive by in that wheeled shelter providing them with a momentary escape from where they were just before.
I see in their eyes a cold isolation, a sense of life’s raw disarray, coming or going, a sense of longing no one can ignore.

We’re all born with this sense of elation to life’s embrace as we then saunter about through years, seemingly, with justification.
We act upon the choices presented us, day to day, as life’s vicissitudes bring us it’s joys and it’s daunting mortifications.

With all the ‘goodness’ life affords us in the sights and sounds, the tastes and the smells, the grandeur and beauty that surrounds,
We must give pause with wanton choice to share with those without the sight our eyes behold of pleasures who to us, life abounds.

I read, today, about two children who reside in a scorching sun and town baron of paved streets and arboreal display, no sounds of life on trees or the scampering of quad pedal friends, bombs and bullets have taken their place.
An arid dirt road runs between where their windows face each other and their little faces sneak a peek through closed curtains looking at each other. They’re not allowed to talk, let alone play, because they’re told the other worships a God that offends.

I saw, today, a moving picture of a little child who’s tiny hand grasps even a tinier one held within, barefooted they take their daily stroll toward their grocery store shared with wild dogs and flies that swarm and hover over their garbage mound of choice.

If I were but a tree my limbs would sprawl out reaching out
to touch the sunrays and only feel the rain drops fall upon me
from the clouds, then maybe, as a tree, I wouldn’t care of
the answers to the ‘why’ of life or shed the tears
that have made my facial cheeks raw and dry
and I would just satiate my thirst and display to nature my
verdant-crimson sachet dress against its azure canvas sky.

Alone

The days for me no longer are Sunday thru Saturday,
the days and nights now mesh into neither light or dark.
I cannot see outside with curtains closed, I sit alone.

The weeks and months now gather fast,
they taunt the years as they go past.
It seems that now in my waning years
I look forward to intermittent moments my pain disappears.

It seems that day after day while I sit alone,
Life goes on outside my door.
My wife departs for work like others, too,
and I try to keep my mind busy, something to do.

When my health and legs were healthy,
early in the mornings earlier than most,
I would spring out of bed to write, to run,
prepare to go to work, eat breakfast with my wife,
some bacon, eggs and toast.

I loved integrating with people through out the day.
Going to work meeting the days challenges then after
attending social and athletic activities,
exercising was so much fun at play.

I welcomed any and all opportunity
rising at a moments notice, living in spontaneity,
traveling with my wife enjoying her hand in mine.
Walking with youthful steps along rustic trails,
inhaling arboreal wafts observing Nature’s fold,
ending on a blanket with a glass of wine.

I look forward for the doctors to repair my other limb,
I will spring up and walk,
finding work, giving my life worth.
Once again I’ll go out and play with others,
night or day, it’s no fun sitting inside alone.

again

Through my eyes and in reflection
I see the tiny hands holding each other tight
As they walk barefoot to find shelter,
Mom holding in her arms my youngest brother,
A somber yet wondrous recollection.

I recall a piece of bread in my front pocket,
It must last me throughout the day.
Recalling my oldest brother, then ten,
As the oldest and strongest male
With his eyes open wide, his head looks left and right,
rotates all around like an owl on its perch,
Watching over us as we walked along a darken street.

Somehow Mother would find us warmth
Find us food, a loving home.
At that time we had no conception
How hard it was for her to clothe us
Or put shoes on our feet.
Little did we know then, because of this,
Some days she did not eat.

She fed us and clothed us
Through out our growing days
Never exposing us to her own pangs
Of how she worried not about tomorrow
But about our next meal
And how for us she’d care.

I cherished her in later years
Hugged and kissed her, wiped away her tears.
Now that she’s departed probably to heaven’s gate
I try to think of not my loss
But the fondness with her of so many years.

I Wish to be Around

To some, my years on earth may be many
but to me too few.
So much more to be done,
so many more steps
and trails to traverse.

There are songs a many
that I've yet to sing,
so many sounds and sights
mine eyes yet to capture.

The gentleness of hands
left to be gently grasped,
words from my heart
left untold.

Chilled mornings arising with my soul
awakening and awaiting for the days sharing
of hugs and kisses from loved ones,
accumulating anecdotal moments,
their laughter, their tears
their smiles, even their wiles,
for this, I wish to be around.

Soon, once again, I will be placed asleep,
a sharp edge will remove
the malady, the pain so long within
that has kept my eyes from closing at night
capturing the dreams, the embellished stories,
of what my life is and has yet to be.

If my time has come to sleep and awaken no more
in this mundane world, then hopefully,
other eyes will read my words,
Loved ones will embrace our fond memories
remembering of how our hearts beat as one.

Wrestling Wind and Maple

The wind it gusts and blows, with more intensity, it howls.
It grapples with this grandpa Maple now standing proudly
with its large baron limbs stoutly outstretched.
They wrestle, snapping sounds are heard, the Maples' smaller appendages fall.
An occasional large sound of cracking coming from its trunk and belly
as the grand large limbs stretch, battling its foe.
Its once multicolored orange-yellows, reds and oxblood leaf tassels of its garb
now carpets its base and a larger expanse on the yard
with that array of Fall display.

The westerly winds now race northeast and push the curtain of rain away
leaving a mirror of rainfall saturation soon used as a watery playground
as robins, blue jays and geese have happily found a wetland.
As the veil of thin sheathes of gray clouds meander slowly eastward
the shard like rays of the sun now pierce through,
all now glitters and glistens for all is freshly bathed.

The once portentous darkened skies that raced across as we awoke in morning rise
leaves us now with colors strewn about our roofs and lawns.
All kinds of feathered friends and scampering small terrestrials
awaken with excitement much like the fabled "Land of Oz".
They give the sounds of life rebirth in lieu of howling treachery
that 'Mother Nature' sometimes imports,
Yet through this transition of trepidation
comes the brilliance of a rainbow
manifesting life's' soulful appreciation.

My tetra loss

One of my tetras died yesterday. I found it floating in the fish tank.
Minutes before I was watching it swim about " excited"
because I had turned on their light and fed them.
Did it suffer with angst and pain?
Did the others lament in witness of its death?
Did it know prior to departure from this mundane
stage of the void that would replace life?

My query is; whether there's that emotional tug
of fear, of tears, of loss, loneliness of years
among other living entities,
as they appear in human beings?
Is our human empathy so forgotten
and the choice of ignorance so begotten,
to think that we humans are the only entities
with Love and suffering?

We manifest insensitivities toward our own humankind,
watching them in apathy as their children die.
We share not our food, our warmth or our clothes
we give not or our time, our love or our voice.
If so, why do we purport to care about other life forms
when they look in our eyes so deep,
their paw, their beak or their fin lay upon our hand so sweet,
they gently depart alone, 'quietly in the night'.

This interest at such grand philosophical scale
from the loss of a life form so small,
is comparative in cognizance,
of how we've not cared for our air;
How we've not cared for our seas;
How we've not cared for our land;
Where all other life forms exist.

One must remember, the words in a book of importance;
"...man will be judged by how they take care for the "least of us".
"Least of us" is concerning all forms of life that co-exist with us.

I'm sadden for my other tetras and their loss.

I cried last night

My head lay on the pillow last night
I felt a stream of tears rolling down
both sides of my face
My pillow became wet
I cried last night.

Thoughts scrambled through my mind
Of lonely days and being alone
expressed to me by a loved one
I felt human empathy for her
I cried last night

He fought with all his might
And overcame harrowing deteriorating pain
His body feeble now
Can barely raise his head to wake with the morning sun
But he defeated a tugging death
I cried last night

Assailing sorrow pervades her existence
Lost a small child to the hell of uncaring streets
When last she heard her child was fine
words last spoken still ring in her ears
Before the dark of night swallowed her
I cried last night

She sits on a blanket covered single sofa
a pillow supports the back of her shoulders
her head, slumped, reflects the light that stands behind her
Her dark scalp has been denuded of hair now many months
A nasal cannula wraps around her ears
an intravenous tube connects her arm with a machine that hums
the electric company threatening to shut off her power
I cried last night

Incessant pains throughout my body
The prosthetic hips and broken bones
And aging back no longer walks upright
Lying down gives little comfort
Although my lovely wife does, she lies beside me
I grunt and groan in lieu of snoring
I hope it does not wake her gentle sleep
I cried last night.

The Soul Rests

The spirit, the soul, timeless in it’s vest
Sits observing all the rest
While struggle and strife
Abates the existence from human form
Of its peaceful wake upon its nest.

The spirit resides in a different realm
Whilts its extrication from the human shell,
It stays without emotion or care
Existing and framed by human desire
To perpetuate the ‘good’ of the mundane
So until ‘death do us part‘, it sits there.

Mantra

When I look into someone else’s eyes
My selflessness grows
thoughts of personal concerns assuaged
I help wipe their tears and lift their soul.

I’ve made this choice within myself
To share, to give, which helps mend my soul
Somewhat of a selfish act, I know
But in return we both will grow

It motivates for me to act
Not to wait or wallow in apathy
My bodies thin no longer fat
My hearts muscle grows in energy

Something we all should do
Is give of our time
Look for those less fortunate
Lessen the worries in their mind

It is not just words I wish to mentor
My actions will replace the space
And attest to that which I speak
Through volunteerism and kindness
End my day with thoughts of Love and peace.

In my native language

Sometimes I wonder if my prose or poetry
were written in my native language,
Would it mean the same,
would the words still play the same strings
Upon the harp that resides in the heart?

Would the ears that hear the rhythms of my words
as I play them in the stanzas of a song,
could they sing along?

If I say, ‘mi Corazon, tus ojos brillan
como cuando miro a las estrellas
En el cielo de la noche‘, would you know
That I speak of how your eyes are as bright
As the stars at night?

If my soul could speak in the language of my Mother’s Mother
And recall the mountains that would sentry our little town,
Where as ‘tots’ we would chase the roosters and chickens
Barefooted in the dirt street as they would stand laughing
And clapping when we would fall tackling and only
Grasping the feathers of their wings.

The gaiety of their smiles and the tears
From their laughter still resound in the fondness
Of my memories, while my Mother shouts “ oye Nene,
cuidado, carga la! Necesito huevos”.

The heart strings of my memory in these words
cannot be played in translation but the tune of the song
Can certainly be heard in the melody that my eyes sing
Through the tears of joy as they rhythmically flow down,
Down my aged cheeks on my face.

“El mar tiene las perlas,
El cielo tiene las estrellas,
Pero, mi Corazon, mi Corazon,
Mi Corazon tiene amor!”

“The sea has its perils,
The Heavens its stars,
But my heart, my heart,
My heart has Love!”

by H. Heine

Child Lost

Such sadness when a child is lost so soon,
To life’s inimitable reality, the end.
Some say sadness should not define the
Truth of death but when it comes insidiously
To one so young with pain and suffering,
It leaves one with feelings that God
Does not Love his own creation.

We who awaken to the toils and travails
Of life’s burdensome assail, of waning youth
And upon the shoulders of the aging process,
compares little to the distraught felt
By a child’s feebly opening eyes
Not understanding why such anguished few years
Upon him, life’s availed.

Soon, though, arrives when I might feel
Much like that child that my years on earth
Have come to the end of my apportioned time.
The deterioration of my skin and bones
And excruciating manifest pain
And my eyelids not wanting to open
Because even in sunny days, within my heart and soul
Are covered in grey clouds and rain.

It is not that I am saying “woe is me”
But that here in this moment of my life
I am anguished of life’s end and like that child
Not understanding why like this it must end.
In pain and shared tears of sadness from loved ones
Why should we not of God’s presence
Feel mourn filled disdain?

I would gladly give some years of my life
To that child, to witness love, to witness happiness,
And yes to witness sadness delineating from what is joy.
If I could give the fondness of some memories
Within that child’s abode, I would smile in the face of death
That I had stolen from it’s sinister grasp
And given that child the gift of time.

Please know, I care

Silent for so long my lips have been
About all the things my eyes have seen
Through trails and paths my feet
Have so tenuously travailed.

My ears have heard such parlance
Such mean and hurtful words
Disdaining cries of prejudice
Toward my café colored skin.

If only those with scornful words
Would know of me what’s within
That my heart cares and
Shares with them Life’s pangs and wares.

And like myself others with not so fair of skin
Somewhere in history most have a common kin
Had made thee breakfast and washed thee clothes
And sang thee song for thine eyes to close.

Fear not such small and trivial things
For in the whole of life
Thy heart will someday sing
a song where words and melody
Will be from the same hymn

Eyes: Windows or Mirrors of the Soul?

When I look into the windows of their souls, my two kids, Jules and Jaz(miniature poodles), remind me of how life exists “in the moment”. One debates and holds complex and in depth discourse as to the “meaning” of life as to whether born of a perceived notion of and act from a supreme being (deity), or that all which exists are the results from spontaneous chaos evolving into what we call “life”. Whatever it may be, when I look into their eyes as both find warmth on my lap and they lap me with the soft wet of their tongues showing their appreciation for this moment, they show me that ‘Love’ resides within and is intrinsic 'in the moment' without corruption. 'In the moment'; judgment has not time to impart or inflict the damages of morals, politics or philosophies.

The eyes become but mirrors of that which surrounds and in which one resides. They reflect and share with others only that which one sees through these conduits of the universe without subjective tones. Recently we’ve witnessed the earths eyes and conduits viewing the expanse of the universe through the comparatively inconspicuous lenses of the Hubble telescope. It is ’awe’ inspiring that such creation abounds. Whether the origins are believed to have been incepted by a ‘deity’ or by other intellectually conceived means, the intrinsic make up of human nature seems to call out into this grand expanse of the universe with a Hope that other forms of intelligent life may exist and may have some saving answers to resolve our most profound human challenges.

I sense within myself emotions so deep for this introductory desire of Hope for some responses to my intellectual and human query. Hoping for answers to that which is most poignant to me, that being: Why is there such self inflicted Human pain and suffering upon each other? Why is there such pain and suffering sometimes genetically inherited at birth which is seemingly beyond human control? Why is ‘death‘ and the subsequent pangs of anguish from the sudden absence of that life form such a misunderstood necessity? Why are passions and emotions such a major player in our ‘Human‘ make up? The human characteristics of 'passion and emotion' along with the diminished capacity of our ‘intellect’ seem to coexist but victimizing each other as obstacles toward clarity.

We, human beings, struggle now just to survive and maintenance our ‘damaged‘ planet, our damaged souls. When now I peer into my ‘kids’ eyes, I wonder how their view can somehow transcend their perspective of calm and unconditional ’Love’ upon us. I sit here asking these questions but they do not as we now sit here listening to Bocelli, Mario Lanza, Groban, Mozart, Chopin, Schubert, Shimabukuro, Segovia etc., etc., etc..

Writing

Every day I try to listen and hear a story or see a situation that will inspire the deep roots of thought, creativity and incite conspicuous attempts at expressing myself in some form of a rhythmic rendition of words that might at the end sound and read, mellifuously. It is my wish that someday, somehow my melody of word structure will create a syntax that evokes emotion, sensitivity and most of all paint a picture, a true depiction of my heart.

The voice of Mother’s song every day when waking in her presence evoked this inherent desire for being enmeshed in music. Whether vocally or instrumentally, music was the string that ran through all of our hearts, my brothers and sister. None of us, unfortunately, pursued a discipline in music, although, my one brother and myself did expose our prodigious vocal chords for a small time frame as singers in a couple of local ’rock-n-roll’ bands.

Because of my not pursuing and perpetuating that gift that was inherited, my focus has turned to developing a semblance of ‘wordsmith’ discipline. This shall be my self apportioned exercise through my waning years even after my vocal chords can no longer squeeze a note in pitch and my ears can barely hear, I shall still be able to paint with finger strokes a picture or portrait some may appreciate.

Within is born this desire to sing
With words that form lyrics
And the syntax in a sentence, a melody.

Without a guitar or a piano
Just words written and spoken
In rhythm, sounds of song.

Sometimes ears will listen to a melody
Without pitch and or tone,
that is when words written or spoken
Shall evoke the music in one’s ears.

So when the age of years take away
The touch of fingers on ivory’s
Or flex on strings
They will still be able
to place word on writ.