tired and uninspired

when dewdrops kiss the misty morn,
 when night bears witness as tomorrow is born,
when exhaustion succumbs to thoughts forlorn,
     only then will you catch my eye.
when the sadness that creeps bids farewell to the friend
 that leaves as the tea party comes to its end,
when sleep receives the dream that you send,
      then and only then do i sigh.
good night my peoples, good night to you all.
 the sandman vanquishes another to fall
 into the oblivion of the warriors hall
     bereft of certainty desired.
 and though i must go as so many before,
 take to heart these words i implore:
 seize your time and shake the buds once more!
      never allow life to be ...tire or uninspired

Lullaby World

I miss the time when my dreams were lullabies,
when child would rest at mother's breast, imagining cotton clouds and marshmellow skies.
 I miss the presence of youthful innocence,
when grandpa would twirl his baby girl
up in the air in that lullaby world- and she would dance on his feet in blissful ignorance.
I miss those days of strolling through wooden ways, no concrete beneath my feet,
not wearing the shoes that i should, just divergent paths through a naked wood.
 I miss the people that came to every birthday- that feeling of fame, goodies and gifts-
the center of attention, without a wheelbase, without an age to mention.
 oh, to live in a lullaby world, to sap the strength of every giving day,
to live as though there were no tomorrow, where loved ones never fade away.
I miss my time in dreams that never seemed to lack, to find my childhood and take it back!!
where the world and the people were never better, living life to their word, to each individual letter but now it only exists in the rhyme of Brahm's lullaby. I miss the time.

Syrup in My Coffee

Lately, I've been feeling ...I don't know, a little distracted I guess,
where my face is unshaved, my eyesight is clear, but my hair's all a mess.
I wander, wondering about these times ...about endtimes and destinies and fate,
putting syrup in my coffee and wet egg on my plate.
The seasons still are changing, the leaves are falling, life is failing without fail
but i am stuck in a muck of my own making, no end to no known beginning on how to tell my tale. Are all the stories already written? Do we continue to read without knowing what we are reading until we come to the end of the book?
 Are we wandering in lustful wondering ...without realizing we need to cook?
Taste has no flavor now. We add herb and spice -and then add it twice
because how it will taste, we cannot tell.
Living life without responsibility, awaiting granny to ring that ole dinner bell.
...But i am responsible. At least, I have responsibilities. I go to work, i pay my dues,
I pay my taxes and all their fees.
The seasons, they still are a'changing, the snows will blow soon across the bow
but I am stuck in a muck of memory, ending my woe, though I don't know how.
I am simply thankful for my good health, for my wealth and my wife, my life,
for still having hair and my eyesight.
Sometimes, in a slip of mind, in my meandering I find I forget to finish what...