Four men and one death

Four men and one death

a flick of my wrist

a snap of my fingers

a crack of my whip

a tap on my shoulder

I’m gone

I’m down

I’m dead

I should have been a salesman

there’s a body on the road

from the looks he’s quite a load

I could pick this body up

I could put him on the truck

there is quite a lot of room

for a quick and temporary tomb

we will drive him to his grave

for he’s too far gone to save

they brought me this corpse

this man, this life that’s run it’s course

I will cover up his face

I will dig his resting place

I will put him in the ground

I will fill it to a mound

when I finish with my fun

God will have him His will be done

As I wake I have this fear

for no sounds do I hear

it is dark and it is cold

does death have me in its hold

I cannot move my hand and arm

there it is again, I’ve bought the farm

but wait a second I must protest

there’s a beat inside my claustrophobic chest

it is my heart it does not lie

I’m alive I did not die

I hear a cry

Its from nearby

And while it is awful faint

Just a dream I’m sure it aint

I’m walking near the cemetery

And now I am awfully weary

But still this cry I can’t ignore

So I begin this dreadful chore

To find what it is I’m looking for

I zero in on that shrill whine

But its source I cannot find

I take ten minutes then ten again

The noise stops and that is when

I find the grave, I dig and dig

I find the box, it’s a big gig

I pry it open and there I find

A body that a soul has left behind

Soapbox 1

Soapbox 1

I do not want to know

the future we’re creating.

“Morals” is a strange word,

a concept quickly fading.

If we look inside ourselves,

I know what we would see,

a billion private hells

and scared uncertainty.

We lack the strength, the courage,

the bold hope we need,

to make a worthy stand

to stop the growth of greed.

Instant gratification

is how it is these days.

Our conscience is all but covered up

by a numbing, congealing haze.

All of life has yet to be damaged

by this lecherous and baneful muck.

And that my friend, dare you be

is where we are in luck.

For in everyone there is some Good,

and in some, that Good is what is most.

Good can heal, Good can grow.

But Good needs you! as a host.

As The Rider Rides Away

As the rider rides away

As the rider rides away

I suddenly feel my heart sway

the pull, the pull away

seems to make my blood like clay

forming clods inside my veins

holding all the pain inside my chest

leaving me to do what I do best

feel the pain, feel the pain, feel the hurt

the ache, the sting, the grief

like a robber, a burglar, a dirty thief

the rider rides away

What will be

Just to let you know what will be.

This is just a forum for poetry written by me.  Simple enough.

Hopefully I will reach some sort of audience.   I do write for myself but as with most writers, I enjoy having my work read.  Go ahead and make a comment if you like.  My stuff is free to interpretation, but is usually about conveyance of emotion, which is what I feel most good poetry is about.

Most of all, I hope you enjoy what I've written.  

Should have first poem up within a couple days.  So check it out.

Thanks.