Sometimes it’s so easy.
Sometimes it’s just not.
Sometimes it costs twice as much
As everything you’ve got.
Sometimes it goes slowly,
Sometimes way too fast.
Sometimes it’s the right time;
Sometimes it’s half past.
So don’t take it for granted;
Give it all its due.
Just don’t wait til it’s over
To ask “what is it to you?”
From nascent she leisured to latent,
Then apace, proceeded to blatant.
W. C. Fields and Charles Bukowski walk into a bar. The bartender says, “What’ll y’have?”
Fields says, “M’boy, I’d like two fingers of your finest misanthropy with a shot of vitriol and a splash of bitters in a glass rimmed with salt from the dried tears of crying babies.”
Bukowski ponders for a moment, then says to the bartender, “Make that TWO Reasons to Live.”
Grow your tales
Tall with myth.
But left to right,
The width of pith.
“Here” is the first word of my poem
And lest you look away and miss,
The word that brings it to a close
Is nothing more than only “this”.
And so to sleep,
Perchance to dream
That I might score one
For the team.
I’d settle, though,
Per dream to chance
This time, at least,
I’m wearing pants.
So alike, Muse and Mistress,
For I often find,
Both turn to artful pleasure: distress
When I’m so entwined.
If your glass be empty
And mine with water brimful
I’d make of you an optimist
And half-emptily stay whimful
(for Cait Brennan, whose many halves are fully filled)
Every smile you give is
A hundred times returned.
And every word of kindness is
Eternal kindness earned.
And from first the baby crawls,
To grave’s a steady climb.
But don’t despair for all’s a spree
In meter and in rhyme.
“Where were we when? Where to from now?
And when and where convene?”
“Well… Heretofore, theretothen and
Everywhen in between.”
Wandering Mined 