The Poetry of Michael Mack *ASSOCIATE  MEMBER* The Writing Forum’s Writer of the Month - May 2008   AUTHOR’S BIO: My name is Michael Mack. I’m 62 years old and live in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. I have one book of poetry published entitled "BALLADEER - The Poetry of Michael Mack,” and have had one poem turned into a book entitled “TREBLINKA” accepted by the Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum in Israel for display. I’m the Open Poetry moderator of the website Passions in Poetry where I go by the name Balladeer. Please click here to access that website. Poets of all levels are welcome to participate. Come register and submit your poetry or simply read the works of our members...it's a very friendly place! To read my Epic poems published here at The Writing Forum please click here. My personal website can be accessed by clicking here. My Email:  balladguy@gmail.com   POETRY BY MICHAEL MACK Click on the button in front of any title in the list below to be linked directly to that poem’s location on the page:   Counting Clouds   The Hallways of My Mind   Jack, Jackie and Bob   Understanding Free Verse   Knowing When Love is Through   Making Love to You   False Reality   The Killing of the Cats   The First Time I Saw Jackie   In Memorial   That's What Poets Do   FRIDAY NIGHT AT WAL-MART   THE FOURTH TENOR   THE HONKY TONK PIANO MAN        FROM MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE   Small Pain In My Chest   The Robot   The Dummy   All Rights Reserved...   Old Fogeyism   Beyond the Door - a Sonnet   My Plan   If Music Be the Voice of Love   The Joy of Loving You....   Unconditional Love   One Beer for Rosie   Counting Clouds i tried counting clouds once stood there looking up at that sky all sweaty-faced pointing a finger at each one as i counted. one, two, three....sixteen, seventeen but the clouds would not hold still they kept movin', changin' dissapatin', disappearin' there before my eyes. one minute there, next minute gone you know how it is... it was too hard keepin' track. how can you count something that won't stay in one place? i watched an elephant turn into a horse turn into a dog turn into a mouse and....gone. where do clouds go when they die? they move around like little puffs of smoke at the mercy of the wind? or do they all come together someplace else? all i know is, to me, they're gone. saw a castle up there for a minute fat, billowy towers , tall one right in the middle. i looked for the princess in the window but she wasn't there. didn't last though.. started breaking up before i could even count it. i screamed out, "Don't go, girl!!" but clouds don't pay attention to pathetic voices like mine. they got their own agenda, i suppose. thought i saw your face for a minute but it was just smoke havin' fun with me. so there i stood, face wet with sweat too dumb to even realize that man don't sweat in december counting clouds that won't hold still and watching them go away.   The Hallways of My Mind At times this fast-paced world can be A burden hard to bear. The daily grind brings out in me A feeling of despair. When days like those come to my door And I can feel the grind I visit worlds I knew before Down hallways of my mind. I plop down in my comfy chair Lean back and raise my feet. A comfy pillow waits me there To make the scene complete. I close my eyes and settle back To let my nerves unwind As mind goes on a one-way track Through hallways of my mind. I visit places I had known From old days way back when, Recall the seeds that I had sown And sow them once again. I think of turns that my life took By God and Fate designed View my life as an open book That dwells within my mind. Old feelings come alive once more As my mind takes a look Of all the choices I explored And pathways that I took. The now is gone - the past returns My thoughts race unconfined To younger days where passion burns Still brightly in my mind. Then, when my mind is void of stress As thoughts come to an end, I slip off into nothingness Where quiet is my friend. When I awake, I start anew, With attitude refined. Thank God for precious times I spend In hallways of my mind.   Jack, Jackie and Bob (an expanded Triolet) Bring back the Jackie Gleason shows That made me laugh with wild delight Until I had a runny nose. Bring back the Jackie Gleason shows. They were just ordinary joes But Ralph and Norton were a sight! Bring back the Jackie Gleason shows That made me laugh with wild delight. Bring back the funny Bob Hope shows Wherever men were sent to fight. He traveled with the USO's Bring back the funny Bob Hope shows. While soldiers fought against our foes He offered them a brief respite. Bring back those funny Bob Hope Shows Wherever men were sent to fight. Bring back those great Jack Benny shows That used to fill my Friday night. Chin held by hand in classic pose Bring back those great Jack Benny shows. As everyone who watched him knows His fiddle playing was a fright! Bring back those great Jack Benny shows That used to fill my Friday night. The tides of Life have ebbs and flows That bring the dark where once was light. Joy comes to life and then it goes. The tides of Life have ebbs and flows. These three now share deserved repose Forever young in Heaven's sight. The tides of Life have ebbs and flows That bring the dark where once was light. In my mind admiration grows For these three stars that shone so bright Until the final curtain close In my mind admiration grows. I thank them for their silly prose And bid the three a fond goodnight. In my mind admiration grows For these three stars that shone so bright.   Understanding Free Verse He placed the page in front of me. “Read it" he said. The sentences were in the form of geometrical shapes. I read up one side of the square across the top, down the other side across the bottom up the triangle down the triangle around the circle trying to piece the words together. The sentences curled up the spirals disappearing at the turns to reappear with words missing. I lifted the page. The words slid down the paper to land in a heap at the bottom. I held the page out giving it the forty-niner shake trying to get the words back in place no gold. 'Never mind', he said. 'You just don't get it." I looked again. The words had become worms leaving slimy tracks as they made their way over the blank white surface and I knew he was right.   Knowing When Love is Through Once an egg is broken, it can never be replaced. Once a word is written, it can never be erased. Once a shoe has worn out, its usefulness has, too And one of the things of knowing love Is knowing when it's through. Once a flower has wilted, its fragrance disappears Once a word is spoken, it will echo through the years. Once a match has burned out, it will never flame anew And one of the things of knowing love Is knowing when it's through. Funny all the time spent on half-forgotten dreams. Funny all the energy we waste on foolish schemes. We wouldn't strike that matchstick to watch it flame anew, Why, then, can't we know enough To know when love is through? So, on we go, relentlessly, in spite of tears and pain Trying to stop the leaves from falling Trying to stop the rain, But, once a heart is broken, it will always be in two, And one of the things of knowing love Is knowing when it's through.   Making Love to You I enjoyed making love to you last night. I enjoyed holding you close to me and feeling The softness of your skin blend with mine As it had so many times before. Your hair was different than I recall - A bit blonder, perhaps And a contented lifestyle may have added A pound or two Here and there I don't care. Surely you could sense how I'd missed you By how I kissed you And touched you And clung to you. I knew it was you Even though you looked at me strangely As I whispered your name I wasn't fooled. I knew it was you because It was your name on my lips And your voice in my ear And your thoughts in my heart. I don't know why you looked at me so strangely In the early morning light Or why you left so quickly Without turning, without speaking But I know you'll come back. You always do.  Your hair may be a different color Perhaps you'll change perfume. Perhaps I may not notice As you walk into the room. But as I lay beside you, One fact will still hold true That, every time that I make love, I'll be making love to you.   False Reality My plates are made of plastic A regal shade of blue As are my knives and forks and spoons And serving dishes, too If, by some chance I stumble, As I am passing by And knock them off the table They do not break....they do not die. I have two plastic goldfish Within a plastic bowl Providing relaxation To ease a troubled soul. As long as I am careful To keep the batteries dry They'll swim along forever They do not sink....they do not die. I have a Cocker Spaniel I named my buddy Ruff. He doesn't run or chase a ball - How can he when he's stuffed? But he is always there for me. Where I am-there he lies And, though he'll never lick my face, He does not leave....he does not die.  Your picture hangs above my bed. The glass and frame are fake But if it falls down from the wall It has no chance to break. Your beauty takes my breath away. Your smile of sweet delight Dispels the gloom from my small room; Illuminates the night I place my fingers on your cheek And, teardrops in my eye, I disregard reality...... You don't get sick.....You do not die..   The Killing of the Cats ~Perhaps Pope Gregory's most lasting action was a minor item: saying in his  papal letter Vox in Rama of 1232 that cats were an instrument of the devil and  a symbol of heresy. This led to a great reduction in the number of cats, which, a hundred years later, contributed to the quick spread of the Black Death plague,  which killed 1/3 to 1/2 of the population of Europe... Eight hundred twenty years ago A little fact few people know Caused history to change its flow. I swear it's so. I swear it's so. Pope Gregory to all decreed That cats were spawned from devil's seed To kill them was a vital need And with godspeed..and with godspeed. Then, all throughout the countryside A host of countries, far and wide Conducted feline genocide. The creatures died. The creatures died. By thousands they were slaughtered by Fanatics heeding Papal cry. Light the bonfires! Watch them die For God on high. For God on high. Then came the dreaded plague to fall On young and old. It killed them all. The strong, the weak, the big the small, See how they fall. See how they fall. For many years, from dawn to dawn Infected rodents traveled on With nothing there to stop their spawn The cats were gone. The cats were gone.   The First Time I Saw Jackie It was a day that fell between the cold of Winter's sting And warming rays that indicated days of early Spring, Not cold, not hot, a gentle breeze came rolling off the bay That made it feel like paradise on that mid-April day. I sat there with my baseball glove in my ten year old hands Looking at the lines of people filling up the stands. Ebbets Field was ready to begin another year. I sat there, waiting patiently, for my Bums to appear. I still recall I was surprised to hear my old man say, "Grab your glove, son. Let's head down to watch the Dodgers play." We seldom went to baseball games so it seemed strange to me. My dad was always working to support the family. But this time it was different, though I couldn't tell you why As if there were a glint of some emotion in his eye. Although it has been sixty years, his words live in me yet. He said, "This is a game I want you never to forget." So there I sat while waiting for the Dodgers to come out. In my ten year old world this was what life was all about. About three rows in front of me I saw a young black child Around the same age I was and he looked at me and smiled. The Dodgers took the field! The stands exploded with applause (Though cheering for the Bums was normally a hopeless cause!) Blacks outnumbered whites by more than double in those stands And, to a man, they all stood up and wildly clapped their hands. I must confess I was surprised to hear their mighty roar As if they'd never chanced to see a baseball game before And then I saw the reason for theirthundering outburst For, out there on the field, was a black man playing first!!! I'd never seen a black man in the Major Leagues before. I had a stack of baseball cards that dad bought at the store But everyone I had was white, not one with colored face Yet there he was at Ebbets Field, standing at first base. I'd heard about the Negro Leagues and WIllard "Home Run" Brown Cool Papa Bell, I heard them say, had been the best around And I recalled Ted Williams calling Satchel Paige by name While saying he had been the best to ever play the game. But in the major leagues? Wow! I thought that was really neat. He stood there like a giant, smoothing dirt out with his feet. I looked up at my dad and saw his eyes were shining bright. He put his arm around me as he squeezed my shoulder tight. Jackie was a BLACK man, not a caramel-colored, light- Skinned, cream in your coffee negro that could almost pass for white. He wore his blackness proudly as he stood out there on first, A drink of water for a people suffering from thirst. When Jackie came up to the plate the stands screamed out with joy, " C'mon, Jackie!! Hit it outta here!! We're with you, boy!!" With fingers crossed or hands in prayer, their pleas filled Brooklyn air As, to a man, they stood and cheered their hero standing there. In fairy tales or movies Jackie would have done just that And hit a homer every time that he came up to bat But, in the first he grounded out, third flied out straight away, The fifth he hit a grounder turned into a double play. It didn't matter, though. In days to come he'd show them all That he was more than worthy to be out there playing ball. The day was his, no matter what he did. They didn't care. What mattered to the people watching was that he was THERE!. The Dodgers won it, 5 to 3, and we got up to go. I saw the black boy rising, too, down in the other row. He smiled and stuck his thumb straight up and I did mine the same For we both knew that what we saw was more than just a game. The first time I saw Jackie was a day I won't forget. The vision of him standing there on first stays with me yet. Goliath wore a baseball cap on that day way back then, No arrow, rock or sling would ever bring him down again.   In Memorial I guess it is a fact of life or one can call it fate That everything invented will be one day out of date. Things come - things go. That's progress, friends. That's what life has in store So here's my small memoriam to things that are no more. There once were horse and carriages - Stagecoaches were the norm And blocks of ice were used to keep one's beer from getting warm. Goodbye to all these relics from the world of yesterday And, while we're at it, there are one or two more, by the way. Goodbye to garters! Women these days have no use for those. No need to hold up stockings now that there are panty hose. Goodbye to milk in bottles and the milkman at your door. Goodbye to house call doctors who you won't see any more. So long to big band era. We have gone through rock to rap. (I'll give you my opinion when I understand that crap.) Those 33's and 45's? No one remembers these. Our music now resides in I-pods and on dvd's. Goodbye to public phone booths, won't be seeing much of those. Poor Superman would never find a place to change his clothes! Now cellphones are the norm in this age of technology And one can kiss goodbye those days that one had privacy. Goodbye to silly virtues now that women have the pill. Without the fear of pregnancy why not enjoy the thrill? It used to be that birth control had several remedies, The best one being aspirin - held tight between the knees! Now mothers don't need fathers if they want to have a child. They go down to the sperm bank to conceive one - ain't that wild? Now husbands can have husbands and, yes, wives can now have wives And we don't understand what's happened to our normal lives. There used to be some privacy but that you can forget. Everything about you can be found there on the net. What are your likes or dislikes? Do you spend or are you frugal? Everything about you can be found right there on Google. A satelite shot will print for me a picture of your house. I'll tell you your life's history with one click of the mouse. If that alone won't make you yearn for simpler days gone by The only question I have left to ask of you is - why??? So this is in memoriam to the world we used to know, A time when life was simpler and meals were not "to go". I know for every step ahead there is a price to pay Yet still at times I yearn for simple days of yesterday.   That's What Poets Do The old year's on its way out now. The new one's at the door. What has been done is history... The future lies before. No matter where our paths may lead One thing I know as true... Whatever comes, we'll write it down 'Cause that's what poets do. We may have tragedies befall We may have joys bestowed. We'll use our love of writing as A way to ease our load. We'll share our joy with others and Our pain and sadness, too. We'll spread our lives on printed page 'Cause that's what poets do. Perhaps we'll gain some comfort from The sharing of our grief. Perhaps our words of laughter will Bring others some relief. Our writings will allow us to Exchange our points of view And learn from one another's ways 'Cause that's what poets do. So greet the new year with a smile An opportunity To write a host of brand new verse Into your diary. Together we will march into The year 2011 Cause that's what poets do To reach their own poetic heaven.   FRIDAY NIGHT AT WAL-MART It's Friday night at Wal-Mart! I am set and dressed to go! It is time to get a head start To the greatest place I know. Parking lot is full already Though the night has just begun Hey! It's Friday night at Wal-Mart! This is gonna be such fun! I can see the Wal-Mart shoppers Seeking bargains left and right Young and old and teeny-boppers Buying everything in sight. Grab a large bag or a small cart Load it up till it gets full 'Cause it's Friday night at Wal-Mart And I'm charging like a bull!!! Take a walk to Sports department, Grab a putter....practice putts. People eye me in amazement Thinking I am slightly nuts Maybe so but I've a good heart Never bothered anyone. It's just Friday night at Wal-Mart And I'm having lots of fun!! Over to the Book Department Read my favorite magazine Browse through Time, S.I. and Newsweek Reader's Digest, Silver Screen. You won't ever catch me fall short Of the news that's happening When it's Friday night at Wal-Mart.. It's an academic thing!!! I may ogle pretty misses Dressed in shorts and mini-skirts. In my mind I send them kisses Though I don't overtly flirt. Love to watch the girls in tight shorts Reach for items on the shelf. Yep, it's Friday night at Wal-Mart And I just can't help myself!! Shoe department is my next stop, Look for something comfortable... Sneakers, loafers, boots and flip-flops Try them till I've had my fill. Never buy them - I just like to Revel in the way they feel. It is Friday night at Wal-Mart.. Such an economic deal! You can saunter to the Snack Bar, Grab a dog and cherry coke, Have a meal that will go far Without making you go broke. Have a seat and watch the shoppers Walking up and down the aisle. I love Friday nights at Wal-Mart! How they always make me smile! There are other things to do here... Try out toys in Juvenile, Head on over to Electronics, Watch some TV for awhile. Sniff the flowers in the Garden Shop.. Their perfume fills my nose. There is so much more to Wal-Mart Than a rack or two of clothes! But it's late - my age is showing And I musn't overdo. Time to get my body going Now that Friday night is through. Week-end's now off to a great start Since I had a real good time Spending Friday night at Wal-Mart And I didn't spend a dime!!!!   THE FOURTH TENOR With broom held tightly in my hand, I swept the large stage floor, Cleaned up debris accumulated from the night before. The tenors had been ON last night, of that there was no doubt. The crowd had been delirious with seats again sold out. Carreras had been in rare form. Domingo's voice was sweet And Luciano Pavarotti brought them to their feet. How blessed I was to work with these great men the whole year through. Though but a stagehand I felt that I was important, too. I heard the echo of her footsteps down the center aisle And looked to see a gorgeous face with such a brilliant smile. I took my hat off quickly, did my best to stand up tall. One tries to look one's best when Sarah Brightman comes to call. "Excuse me, sir," I heard her say. "Could you please help me out? I need to know if, by chance, Pavarotti is about." "I'm sorry, Ms. Brightman," I said, voice filled with regret. "The three of them went out to lunch and haven't yet come back." "Oh, no!", she cried. "He promised me that, if I came along, He'd have the time to help me to rehearse my newest song.. The edges are still rough, I fear, the ending not yet clean. Bocelli and I perform next week a duet for the Queen." "Ms. Brightman," I said, not believing that the voice was mine, "Forgive me if I seem to be a little out of line. Though I'm no Pavarotti, I've had some experience And I'd be glad to join you, if you care to take the chance." A look of absolute surprise showed up on Sarah's face. A lesser woman would have laughed but Sarah held her grace. I saw a tiny twinkle in the corner of her eye. She said, "All right, my stagehand friend, let's give this thing a try." From out of nowhere someone sat there at the baby grand. Ms. Brightman took a sheet of music, placed it in my hand. I stood there, shaking so bad I could barely hold the page. Just me and Sarah Brightman, there - alone - on center stage. The music started. She began, her voice so rich and clear I half expected rainbows and an angel to appear. Then my turn came. I made a small prayer to my virgin saint That she would give me strength enough to not fall down and faint. I felt the notes escape my lips and hover in the air. Ms. Brightman's eyes grew twice their size, sheer pleasure in her stare. My voice was so melodious, so rich in harmony, It seemed impossible that it was coming out of me! We sang. Oh, how we sang! Two perfect voices intertwined. Her face was lit in rapture and I'd no doubt so was mine. Her voice rose up and so did mine. Her voice fell. Mine did, too. So synchronized the song came from one throat instead of two. By now we both were crying. Tears came streaming from our eyes And still the notes came pouring out and rising to the skies. By this time we were lovers, hearts and souls completely bared, Orgasmic, this kaleidascope of passion we now shared. No world existed that we knew outside of this one song. No life or death, no rich or poor, not even right or wrong. My turn - her turn - then both together. On and on it went And, by the time it ended, we were both completely spent. We stood there for a second, stunned by what had taken place, Survivors of a bomb blast would have worn that kind of face, And though it would have pleasured me to stand there until dawn, She whispered, "Thank you, stagehand friend," then turned and she was gone. I hadn't known it at the time but, midway through it all, The tenors had returned from lunch and stood there in the hall. Their faces were in shocked amazement as we sang along, Then all rushed in, applauding, at the ending of the song. "Bravo!", Domingo shouted out. Carreras yelled, "Bravo!" And Pavarotti came to me, his face was all aglow. "Bravo", he smiled, admiringly. "What music you two make!" He clasped my shoulders in his hands. Then he began to shake…… He shook. He shook! "Wake up, my boy! This is no time to sleep. If I recall, we're paying you to use your broom and sweep!" He smiled, "Come on, my weary friend, get up and get with it. Don't want to see your favorite tenor slip into the pit!" Oh, no! It hadn't been at all the wonder it had seemed. 'Twas nothing but a figment of a weary stagehand's dream! The tenors chuckled, smilingly, then turned and walked away To leave me by myself to face the harshness of the day. I walked across the empty stage where Sarah and I stood. Though nothing but a fantasy, the memories were still good. I looked out at the audience, acknowledged their "Encore!!", Then deeply bowed to empty seats and - smiling - swept the floor.   THE HONKY TONK PIANO MAN FROM MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE I wound up in that little town just by pure chance that night, A tiny spot down Dixie way where folks still treat you right. I emptied out the camper of the products that I sell Then settled for a night's sleep in a nondescript motel. While finishing my toiletries, I thought I would, instead Go down to have a nice cold beer before I went to bed. I got directions from the clerk to find the local bar, Deciding I would walk there since it wasn't very far. When I was still a block away, I heard a wonderous sound That sent my spirits skyward and then gently brought them down. Piano chords, the likes of which I hadn't heard in years Were flowing from that tavern with its buck-a-bottle beers. Piano was my passion. I had studied with the best But, in the end, I lacked the skills to pass the final test. My passions did not dwindle, though. I still smiled with delight Whenever I heard sounds produced such as the ones that night. I entered through the side door and I mingled with the crowd. Inside the music seemed to be ridiculously loud. As I had passed the doorway, there had been a small marquee, THE HONKY TONK PIANO MAN FROM MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE. Two guitar pickers were on stage - a fiddle player, too, A drummer so darned small he almost disappeared from view, And, right up front at center stage, for all the crowd to see... The honky tonk piano man from Memphis, Tennessee. His fingers flew like lightning, gliding up and down the keys. The toughest hand manipulations he performed with ease And, all the while, a big smile grew and shot from ear to ear. He waved out to the rowdy crowd and chuckled at their cheer. I sat, in abject fascination, watching as he played, My senses overloaded at the talent he displayed. Yet he performed as though it were a simple thing to do. My head was getting dizzy at the way his fingers flew. Then, as I watched, it hit me. I had seen those hands before! Performing off in London - Copenhagen - Singapore! This man had been the great pianist Johnathon LeGree, This honky tonk piano man from Memphis, Tennessee. LeGree had been the best there was, receiving great acclaim. His destiny had been assured, as had his wealth and fame. But then, one day, he walked away and disappeared from sight To show up in this tavern playing honky tonk at night. The evening show now ended and I saw him in the crowd. They clapped his back and mussed his hair and called his name out loud. A waitress handed him a box of chicken - southern fried. I hurried to catch up to him and followed him outside. He sauntered to a pick-up truck. I called, "Mr. Legree!" He smiled and said, "I see my past is catching up with me. You wonder what I'm doing here - why I am not the rage Of Europe and America, up there on center stage." "Well, yes", I stammered nervously. "I mean, you had it all. Your star rose like a meteor and then you let it fall. How could you let it slip away is what I can't digest. Of all the masters of the keys, you were considered best." "I had it all? I still do, son." He smiled quite happily. "I've got my truck. I've got my friends and got my family. I've got my music every night to keep me nice and warm. I love to play piano. I just don't like to perform." "So tell the tails and bluehairs that old Johnny says hello. I'd like to keep on talking but I really have to go. The chicken's getting cold. My wife is waiting up, you see, But, friend," he smiled, "I thank you much for recognizing me." With those last words he smiled and climbed up into his pick-up truck And, as he pulled away, I heard him say he wished me luck. I watched the best pianist in the world drive round the bend And, as the headlights disappeared, I said, "You, too, my friend." I do get asked quite frequently who I think is the best Of all the great pianists, who is better than the rest. They always think I'm joking when I answer, smilingly, A honky tonk piano man in Memphis, Tennessee.   Small Pain In My Chest The soldier boy was sitting calmly underneath that tree. As I approached it, I could see him beckoning to me. The battle had been long and hard and lasted through the night And scores of figures on the ground lay still by morning's light "I wonder if you'd help me, sir", he smiled as best he could." A sip of water on this morn would surely do me good. We fought all day and fought all night with scarcely any rest - A sip of water for I have a small pain in my chest." As I looked at him, I could see the large stain on his shirt All reddish-brown from his warm blood mixed in with Asian dirt. "Not much", said he. "I count myself more lucky than the rest. They're all gone while I just have a small pain in my chest." "Must be fatigue", he weakIy smiled. "I must be getting old. I see the sun is shining bright and yet I'm feeling cold. We climbed the hill, two hundred strong, but as we cleared the crest, The night exploded and I felt this small pain in my chest." "I looked around to get some aid - the only things I found Were big, deep craters in the earth - bodies on the ground. I kept on firing at them, sir. I tried to do my best, But finally sat down with this small pain in my chest." "I'm grateful, sir", he whispered, as I handed my canteen And smiled a smile that was, I think, the brightest that I've seen. "Seems silly that a man my size so full of vim and zest, Could find himself defeated by a small pain in his chest." "What would my wife be thinking of her man so strong and grown, If she could see me sitting here, too weak to stand alone? Could my mother have imagined, as she held me to her breast, That I'd be sitting HERE one day with this pain in my chest?" "Can it be getting dark so soon?" He winced up at the sun. "It's growing dim and I thought that the day had just begun. I think, before I travel on, I'll get a little rest .......... And, quietly, the boy died from that small pain in his chest I don't recall what happened then. I think I must have cried; I put my arms around him and I pulled him to my side And, as I held him to me, I could feel our wounds were pressed The large one in my heart against the small one in his chest.   The Robot Upon the stairway of despair, Complete with broken love affairs And promises that never came, But faded with a touch of shame, A pretty girl with golden hair And innocence so sadly rare, Strove to keep her head above A way of life devoid of love. Feeling pinned against Life's wall, She chanced upon a robot tall And said, "Please come and share with me Whatever Fate has deemed to be. I'm through with love, done with chances Spirit crushed by past romances, Just be a friend in word and deed. That's all that I shall ever need." "There's not too much from me to learn," Remarked the robot, in return. "Emotions do not form a part of my cold, solid-steel heart. Whatever maker fashioned me Did not permit my circuitry Responsiveness to love or pain - You're thoughts for me would be in vain." "No matter", spoke the maid. "No more Do I wish passion to explore. Be someone I can come home to When my exhausting day is through. Count yourself a well-worn shoe - A friend that I can slip into ...... Protection from a stone cold floor… For this I ask and nothing more." Agreement made, he took her hand And lived the life that she had planned, Always willing, not demanding, Aiding her with understanding He made her smile with humorous wit (As his restrictions would permit) And, bit by bit, she came to feel That he was more than iron and steel. "I love you, robot", she at last Replied when several months had passed. "You're strength and quiet dignity Have brought a wondrous change in me. No more do I feel all alone, And pray you must be flesh and bone. Deep-set emotions you MUST feel Within that outer coat of steel!" "If I were able, I would say I'm sorry I was made this way But my design and programmation Does not provide for that creation 0f feelings normal men may feel That were not born of iron and steel. I told you all this once before. You have no right expecting more." "Go, then!" cried she. "I will not live Beside a fiend who cannot give! Though I be battered by misuse, Misguided trust and strong abuse, At least the men I chose were real And had the power to love and feel. Of all the lovers I recall, You are the cruelest one of all!" The robot, indestructible, Continues freely and at will. Emotionless, apparently, But, bearing closer scrutiny, One can see a small tear streak Down that cold, metallic cheek As I reflect upon my life .... That lovely lady was my wife. The robot, of course, was me.   The Dummy In that forgotten part of town Where wasted hopes and dreams abound, A wrinkled man with life near end, In hopes to have at least one friend, Fashioned bits of wood and things And made a dummy run by strings. He sat alone for hours on end, Conversing with his only friend And found delight within the fact That he controlled it's every act. He told it how he never had A chance, since all his luck was bad Although he'd tried so to succeed - The dummy nodded and agreed. And how his journeys in romance Had never given him a chance, And wasn't it a crying shame That he was always held to blame When everyone knew, oh so well, That life is but a living Hell, Controlled by lust and power and greed? The dummy nodded and agreed. With patience that would rival saints, That dummy sat through all complaints And, with each little expert tug, He'd droop his head or bow or shrug And give some comfort to the man Who held his lifelines in his hand And helped to fill a lonely need When he just nodded and agreed. Senility increased with time As did the old man's phantomime, And feverish fingers pulled with glee The dummy's dance of misery. They never left each other's side Until the day both stopped and died. We found them lying, hand in hand, The dummy - and his wooden friend.   All Rights Reserved... I wrote a poem - some small idea that I had last night, Geared up the old computer and I set it on the site. I saw there, at the bottom, that to keep my work preserved, These words were written under....Balladeer - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. It set my fancy smiling and I laughed aloud because It made me realize how true that small phrase really was. I DO reserve the right to live my life in my own way And do not recognize those who would take those rights away. My rights include ignoring those I don't consider nice Of living by a moral code I will not sacrifice. My rights include, by my own choice, the lifestyle that I choose And running from whoever tries to hurt me or abuse. My rights include ignoring criticisms of my acts Including those who come at me with blindsided attacks. My rights include not liking those who look for weaknesses Or try to gain my confidence with baseless promises. Those who are only interested in having "one-time rights" And find no further use for me when dawn sheds early light May find another actor to perform their one-act play... My right to give my passion is not handled in that way. So, if you want to share my rights, your words must ring as true Or I'll sue you for libel as I have the right to do. I'd love to grant permission but my trust must be deserved Or find another 'cause I'm Balladeer - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.   Old Fogeyism It's funny how one's mannerisms go through such a change When ones age climbs the ladder up to "I'm a fogey" range. There are two paths men seem to take when passing middle age As needle nears the "empty" on the "life remaining" gauge. One path is the complaint department - everything's gone wrong. Complaints they don't sleep long enough - complaints they sleep too long. A list of all the medicines that they are forced to take... A full account of every pain they feel, ache by ache. All talks revolve around somebody who's just passed away Or how much fiber, iron and zinc they have to take each day. Be sure that by the time the conversation ends, they'll say That life was so much easier and better in their day. The other path is proving they are still an able man. They work their age into each conversation if they can. "Nice Drive!", I told my golfing buddy. "That was really great!" "Not bad", said he, "for a guy who just turned 68!" "You want a hot dog?" "Sure", he said. "Digestive system's fine. The doc says my chlorestorol's a perfect 109! I get bowel movements regular as smooth as they can be. My heart's sound as a dollar and you oughta see me pee!!!" It's hard to hold a conversation with this kind of man. Young guys don't talk of death and joys of going to the can. Some elderly don't either but they can be hard to find, The ones who have an aging body but still young of mind. I'd like to write some more but wrists are hurting just a bit And I can feel my back get stiff the longer that I sit. Tomorrow, after my uncle's wake I'll write a little more.. Not bad for a guy with rheumatiz that just turned 64!!!   Beyond the Door - a Sonnet As hourglass sand continues its descent To mark all moments of the passing days I question what existence truly meant As I begin to enter final phase. Be there a God in Heaven who awaits As scholars deem to indicate is true? Angelic figures stationed at the gates To give warm welcome as life bids adieu? Or do the facts deny the lessons taught? Can it be true there is no soul to save, That everything we strive for is for naught, Condemned to cease existence at the grave? Confessing not to know what death contains My hope for everlasting life remains.   My Plan Tomorrow I know what I'll do. I have a master plan. I'm going to turn my life around And be a friend to Man. Mankind will get my full respect. I will not be abrupt. In converstaions with my friends I will not interrupt. I will amaze all with my tone Which shows I truly care And they'll be glad to have a friend Like I am standing there. No sharp remarks or hurtful words, Rebukes or criticisms Will I direct toward those I love, Not even witticisms. No one will make my temper fly As it has done before. Mistakes I'll simply take in stride Without my normal roar. When people chance to think of me, They'll smile that I'm their friend And know that, in my company, They'll never need pretend. Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, I'll implement my plan To be a willing partner in The brotherhood of Man. I had these same thoughts yesterday but it was not my fate. Alarm clock screwed up once again. I woke up three hours late! Some stupid driver cut me off As I drove in to work. It seemed the streets were full of nuts And imbecilic jerks. My secretary hadn't done The work she was to do... Some lame excuse of doctors and Her small son with the flu. All day, it seemed, I was the mark Of some conspiracy Contrived by evil forces whose Goal was to bother me! So, as you see, today was out But I still have my plan And tomorrow, when the sun comes up, I'll be a friend to Man.   If Music Be the Voice of Love If music be the voice of love Then let me be your violin. Hold me gently in your hands And I will bring forth such glorious notes That you will be bathed in the glowing rhapsody 0f my love for you. My music will rise up loudly enough To reach heaven itself - Yet softly enough To fall gently upon your ear. Handle my love as you would a delicate instrument For the way I am touched is the way I must respond. Harshness or anger directed at my strings Can result only in notes of discord and misery Whereas the gentle touch of tenderness Will create melody divine. Don't place me in a corner, Untouched and unwanted For, if another picks me up, due to your neglect, I will respond ..... For that is the nature of what I am. But, if the fingers touching me are not yours, Then the song played Would be but a hollow echo of the joy I am capable of producing. For I was designed for your hands alone And only your touch can turn the key, Releasing all the wonderful melodies That lie untouched inside of me. If music be the voice of love Then hold me gently to your chin, Caress me through eternity And let me be vour violin.   The Joy of Loving You.... I find it so appealing This feel that I'm feeling As thoughts of you come slowly into view It makes my world so bright now Makes everything so right now This feeling that I get from loving you. I really feel blessed now Although I get no rest now My heartbeat goes a hundred miles or two My body takes a lickin' As pulse begins to quicken And all this from the thought of loving you. Seems life is so worthwhile now I always wear a smile now A testament to magic that you do. I feel so much elation From this brand new sensation That comes to me because of loving you. I find it no surprise now This twinkle in my eyes now I'm sure I've never seen them quite so blue. The irises are glowing From all the love they're showing Just from the simple act of loving you. How do you do this thing, dear That makes my heart sing so clear Not even Pavarotti could outdo? My soul turns operatic Because I'm so ecstatic From music that comes out from loving you. The birds and bees are active Because you're so attractive This wild desire is so completely new. My hormones rage like widlfire And nerves are strung like taut wire By thinking of the thought of loving you. Sun never shone so brightly Moon bathes me with glow nightly This warrior has reached his Waterloo. My flag flies in surrender As I bow to your gender And thank God for the joy of loving you.   Unconditional Love Some people say they love each other unconditionally But what they say is..."I love you...as long as you love me" True love that's unconditional will never have a pause Its boundaries are limitless and there's no hidden clause. There's love enough to go around for everyone on earth The unconditionality its only proof of worth Blessed be the soul who, once in life, can have love of that kind It is the greatest love there is but -oh, so hard to find! I love you unconditionally - if I'm with you or not For all the love I'm capable of giving you have got. There is no wrong that you can do - no sin you can commit To stop my heart from loving you and that's the truth of it. Perhaps you'll find another who will fit you like a glove But there will always be a place in my heart filled with love. For I love you for what you are....not what you are with me So if you're happy, I am, too.......love unconditionally.   One Beer for Rosie The bar was just an ordinary, nondescript affair, A row of stools with checkered tables scattered here and there And clientele whose faces traced the passage of the years Recounting faded memories over twenty-five cent beers. I don't know when he wandered in but, looking at his face, Even in a dive like that, the bum seemed out of place. Perhaps the rain had driven him as it had driven me To find whatever refuge from the downpour off the sea. At any rate, he shook so badly he could barely stand And held a wrinkled photograph clenched tightly in his hand. A drunk sat on one barstool, clothes and hair in disarray, And, as the bum approached him, I could hear the old man say "One beer for my sweet Rosie, sir. Just one small beer, I pray. A tribute to my sweetheart who has up and gone away. One beer to drink in memory of the one I held so dear, My Rosie would be grateful if you'll grant me one small beer." I wouldn't have thought the drunk to be awake, much less be able To hear the old man's plea or see the photo on the table, But, as he looked, one finger rose to call the barman near And, in a voice stone sober, said "Jim, give this man a beer." I must admit I was surprised at this strange turnabout For I was sure as anything he'd throw the old bum out, And would have expected anything except for what I'd heard. The old man drained the glass and left without another word. Two teens were playing pinball in one corner of the bar And, as the old man neared them, I KNEW there would be a war! The bum waved Rosie's picture and began the same tirade Just barely heard above the din the pinball buzzers made. One boy took the photograph and, as he looked, his face Rose above the cheapness and the squalor of the place. He nudged the other, who had let the pinball disappear, And, in one voice, they called aloud, "Jim, give this man a beer! Curiosity enfolded me at what had taken place And must confess I burned with strong desire to see that face. What eyes could be so piercing or what nose could be so dear? What face could be so beautiful to warrant so much beer? One by one, he made his rounds and showed the photograph. Each patron stared intently - there was not one single laugh, And, as they gave it back to him, I knew now what I'd hear - Clear voices calling, one by one, "Jim, give this man a beer!" "Hey! Let me see that photograph", I called with laughing voice. "I'll tell you if your Rosie would be something of my choice. Just let me have a little look," I added, with a leer "And, if she's pretty as you say, you'll have another beer!" The bum approached me timidly and not a single sound Escaped his features as he reached and lay the photo down. Just why his fingers trembled as he did it wasn't clear But I was sure as anything it wouldn't cost a beer! I snatched the photo quickly and I held it to my eyes And, as I looked, my features filled with anger and surprise. Was I to be a laughingstock? The victim of some prank? The features on the photograph in front of me were blank! I glared up at the old man, my eyes blazing angrily And saw a room of stone-cold faces staring back at me. Confusion made me falter at this stand the barroom took So I picked the photo up again to have another look. By staring at the photo I could see the faintest trace 0f golden hair cascading down the outline of a face. The photo had been carried, kissed and handled so darn much Her face had almost been wiped clean by this bum's loving touch! How long had this old-timer carried Rosie gingerly While seeking solace in a beer to ease the memory? I fought the wetness in my eyes and spoke up loud and clear These words, "She's beautiful, my friend. Jim, give this man a beer."