A lady I hardly knew said
she thought I was quite a poet
I thanked her but suggested that she
should change my title to that of a muse
I write about things close to my heart
The human condition and such
Things we have no control over and
things, if willing, we can have an effect on
I write about broken hearts
My own, usually, when I witness
scenes of sadness or unnecessary evil
by those seeking power and control over others
I feel and write about those who
have lost love ones, never having the
chance again to say, “I love you” or
“I’m sorry” or just to ask a question
I feel for those who are ill and confused by drugs
and this confusion becomes their truth on which
they make life altering decisions without
regard to the feelings of others
They are good at getting affirmation,
so feel content in their delirium
I listen to petty complaints and write about
the Nomads and refugees, who are cold, hungry and
thirsty; existing with little hope;
many dying, making our small problems seem like luxury
This is the stuff of my musings
I can write about fireflies, moon rises, sunsets and glory
But in the end what really has meaning?
Stanski
January 4, 2019 ^
Day: November 6, 2019
SALTY TEARS DROP FROM OUR EYES
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SALTY TEARS DROP FROM OUR EYES
Salty tears drop from our eyes
Evaporate, leaving no stain
We are sinners
Our souls are marked
Have much to do to make up
For the agony we put Him through
Tears are a remembrance of
All things we think important
They silently speak of the compassion
We have for those who exist without
Food, water and a place to rest themselves
There are no others at all for them
We must be the light that He speaks of
Do the things that will remove their darkness
Pray for guidance to continue needed work
No matter how deep the valley we’re in
Take yourself to the mountain and
Feel the tears flow down your face as
You see and dwell on all of the misery and
Evaluate what your efforts must be
No time to walk away from this
Anguish exists and it is up to us
Want these dear people to sparkle
When the train comes to pick them up
You will wave goodbye and salty tears
Will remind you of the darkness
You neutralized with your light
Gifting others with your gift from Him
We, too, are hopeless many times and
Depend on His blessing to see us through
We are not above or below any being
Unless we choose to be outcasts, who
Will miss out on the tears of joy and
The salt of happiness as we praise,
Bringing the light that darkness cannot overcome
And step aboard His train of goodness
Stanski
January 2, 2019 ^
TEACHING WITH NO ONE LISTENING
How many lessons can I teach?
I thought as I picked up my pen
All of my liberal friends ignore me
When I point out their basic sin
Leaving that area to rest for a while
I focus for a moment on disrespect
Highly paid athletes failure to salute our flag
Forgetting their freedom was provided by deaths
I like heroes in every possible area
Many sports people set examples that are good
They are leaders; uninhibited in their communities
Behaving with gratitude and humility as they should
This is respect we can all admire
It exists positively in midst of degradation
Some instinctively insist on truth
Sometimes creating quite a sensation
Men, remove you hats when you enter a building
Good manners are not a thing of the past
Opening the door and standing up for a lady
Just a good thing to do; can we make a pact
Paying attention is another thing
Many seen to not be aware
Evil lingering right in their midst
Head in the sand, I swear
There are so many things to do
Get involved in your community
So many organizations could use your help
Don’t miss out on an opportunity
When you are at a table, eating out
And sit there for over an hour
Don’t act like it is okay
To leave only a dollar
My pen is tired and so am I
Stanski
June 28, 2019 ^
COLD NIGHT BRIGHT MOON
Temperatures drop suddenly
My ambition follows suit
I walk outside with no coat
Look at the bright cloudy sky
The moon is large giving light
An airplane is zooming in
For a landing in the nearby airport
They appear to be gliding
But are traveling at 400 miles per hour
It drops quickly for its entrance
I think, just like the temperature
Air travel is safe for the most part
Some say safer than car travel
40,000 are killed each year in traffic
The pilots have a lot at stake
Gives me a higher degree of hope
I am a white knuckler when it comes to flying
Looking up I can see no stars
The moon is the big cheese
A man is walking his dog
A large chocolate lab and
The little plastic bag he carries
Appears to be full, so I am sure
He feels like it has been a success
Can probably barely contain his excitement
“Cocoa” was good tonight, honey
He’ll show his wife the bag
My lord, she’ll say, he was a good dog
I guess older people need this activity
Life for some is rather boring and
A good dog offers fulfillment
Even on these cold evenings
The man wasn’t wearing a hat, so
Tomorrow he’ll probably be sick
That will give the misses a chance to
See how she can do with daily duty
She will go when it is still light and
Hopefully warmer, but true dog lovers
Are dedicated and usually hardy
There are more planes coming in, too
I would call that a bonus
Stanski
November 6, 2019 ^
REMEMBERING CAROL
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She had a golden touch, which explained the richness of her living. Her heart was open just enough, to give out all the love that was needed for the right here and now. Her soul she would feed with only triple washed, certified organic, gospel be damned truth. Her soul was pure. She was always on the lookout for scraps, discards and rejects. She found uses for all of these, never related and connected only by the fact that they all added layers to her nest. Little feathers added one by one brought warmth and comfort. She kept this quiet with only subtle mention, but radiated it with her glow of peace, hope and understanding. She reached out far enough so you would always know that her hand was there, waiting. Her voice was much like the soft summer song of early morning nature. She had a silver lining, but it never came with a storm. Her only complaint was of not enough hours. Our complaint was, there was not enough of her. She was an original, first and only version, pure joy and now gone.
By Steve Haarman
November 6, 2019
A CAROL TO MOM
She had a golden touch,
which explained the richness of her living.
Her heart was open just enough,
to give out all the love that was needed
for the right here and now.
Her soul she would feed with only triple washed,
certified organic, gospel be damned truth.
Her soul was pure.
She was always on the lookout
for scraps, discards and rejects.
She found uses for all of these,
never related and connected only by the fact
that they all added layers to her nest.
Little feathers added one by one
brought warmth and comfort.
She kept this quiet with only subtle mention,
but radiated it with her glow
of peace, hope and understanding.
She reached out far enough
so you would always know
that her hand was there, waiting.
Her voice was much like the soft summer song
of early morning nature.
She had a silver lining,
but it never came with a storm.
Her only complaint was of not enough hours.
Our complaint was,
there was not enough of her.
She was an original,
first and only version,
pure joy and now gone.
By Steve Haarman
November 6, 2019
Steve Haarman 