A Forever Kind of Love

If I could,
I would love you each day for the rest of my life as if there were no more tomorrows.

If I could,
I would show you the shear rhythmic splendor of a true heart that yearns for only you.

If I could,
I would wrap you securely in my rugged loving arms and whisper baby your heart is safe with me, never again will it be broken or shattered by callous thoughtless fools who never knew your true worth.

If I could,
I would unleash a raging storm of passion in loving waves caressing every part of your luscious body ebbing just long enough to fulfill your every desire until you fall weak from the rapture of my love.

If I could
I would make you my queen of love dropping to my knees to devour your succulent flower until your back arches, your eyes roll back, and your screams of unbridled ecstasy rape the night’s quiet.

If I could,
I would make a foolish boyish attempt to be your greatest hero by being your anything and everything.

If I could,
make your heart love me like mine loves you for only a single day I would treasure each second.

If I could,
make you mine I will have captured the scarred unicorn and turned my greatest fantasy into a reality.

If I could,
I would change everything that separates our two restless hearts just so an us could be a possibility.

If you let me,
I would love what’s left of you even after more men have left you scarred and broken on the floor. I would then spend the rest of my days trying to love your shattered tear soaked heart back together.

If you let me,
I would knowing your life was coming to an end lift you up in my loving arms and say not yet baby one chapter has not yet been written and it may never be unless the last dance is mine and only mine.

If you let me,
I would show you the one love you have never known, a forever kind of love.

Brighten Today By Changing Tomorrow

Today a small hand grips a gun

Yesterday a small hand shook a rattle

 

Today a heart blackened by rage

Yesterday a heart thirsted for love

 

Today a mind lost in confusions abyss

Yesterday a mind hungered for knowledge

 

Today a soul wounded by constant torment

Yesterday a soul groped for the light of hope

 

Today a frigid pair of unrelenting eyes

Yesterday a warm pair of innocent eyes

 

Today, a bullet claims one life

Tomorrow, the chair of justice will take another

Yesterday, social complacency murdered two

 

Deadly Illusions

Wake Up My Children!  Wake Up!

A creature of many faces stalks you,

A human chameleon devoid of soul,

He hides not in the shadowy corner,

But among you, under the unwary eye.

Do not be fooled by this great pretender

A white hat may adorn his head,

But blackness fills his vacant heart.

 

Be wise my children!  Beware!

He’s the crown prince of trickery.

He’s the grand master of disguise.

This creature can masquerade in godly robes

while writhing painfully under their holiness

Evil can spout the prophetic words of a tribune

while the lie festers under his tongue.

He’s a true disciple of the damned.

 

Wake up my children!  Wake up!

Do not be mesmerized by this alluring creature.

With his apparent straight talk and honesty

He can make you a mindless believer.

But he’s a liar and a charlatan.

He hides behind a wall of illusion,

Preying on the fears of the ignorant

And captivating the ears of the innocent

 

Evil Has Many Faces

Why do you come now?

Why do you besiege me

with your fowl unholy presents?

You are the Prince of Darkness,

the keeper of tormented souls,

you are Satan himself are you not?

 

Oh  call me what you wish!

History has seen fit to adorn me

with many provocative names

and I detest each one of them.

For they perpetuate the myth

that every bit of the world’s evil

springs directly from my loins.

 

Why do you come now?

Why do you torment me?.

I have been a great man of God.

I spread his word with relentless zeal

wielding the sword of righteousness

toward all I deemed evil and wicked.

 

Why I have come to take you home.

You have been a fantastic disciple.

Few have served our cause better.

You have made the worst sins

tolerable to the great masses.

Cloaking evil under Godly robes

was a masterful work of genius.  

 

No!  No!  This cannot be?

God has spoken through me.

I have been his earthly conduit.

I am one of God’s chosen people.

I devoutly followed his teachings

and actively preached his word.

 

 You perverted God’s so called revealed word

into a twisted rendition of your own creation.

You stoked the fears of the ignorant into a inferno

and reaped all you could from the true believers.

You have spawned a most delicious type of hatred.

One that will continue to bear fruit for years to come.

Evil has many faces, but none more hideously vile

than those who hide behind the curtain of religion.       

Amie’s Window

With eyes partially closed and a surrendering smile

as if she were awaiting love’s first innocent caress,

Amie sits by her favorite window in anticipation

of the shear splendor of God’s awakening dawn

and the warm engulfing embrace of morning’s first light.

Amie’s eyes open wider and her smile becomes broader

as the rhapsody of life playing on outside her window

grows more intense with each passing moment.

The birds sing their welcoming tribute to daybreak

in concert with the melodic sound of rustling leaves

as a warm breeze gently whispers through them.

 

With one tiny frail hand braced against the sill

Amie leans slightly forward in her little wheel chair

as a dainty finger with candy apple red nail polish

from her other small hand cautiously pushes aside

the life sustaining tether she has grown weary of

just to allow the consuming aromas of spring

permeate  every tiny recess of her pale nose.

Overtaken by the heavy floral fragrances of

Jasmine and Gardenia clinging to the damp air,

Amie falls back in her chair with eyes closed

and a faint, but rapturous grin on her face.

 

The sound of people chatting and laughing

as they hustle along the sidewalk below

in concert with the distant rumbling noise

of cars whizzing up and down the highway

suddenly fills Amie’s awaiting little ears

and her big brown almond shaped eyes

pop open to investigate what is going on

below her window this beautiful morning.

She stares longingly at a group of children

impatiently waiting for their school bus

wishing she could one day be standing

on the corner waiting like other kids.

 

Amie hears a familiar voice behind her say:

“Okay kiddo it is time for your last treatment.”

As the nurse turns Amie’s chair toward the door,

Amie sadly glances back at her little window

wondering if she will ever look through it again.

Several hours later a gentle wisp of breeze catches

the end of one of the maroon curtains hanging

alongside Amie’s little window to the world

making the curtain curl and appear to wave

as if it were trying to beckon someone closer.

From a small hospital bed  across the room

the weakened voice of a small child calls out:

“I will definitely see you tomorrow  Mr. Window.”

 

Unsung Heroes Of The Predawn Light

We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.

No we may never have fought in a great war,

or saved a soul from the snapping jaws of death.

People wave to us, but few know who we are

and most on a good days run could care less.

Like the organ grinder’s monkey from days of old,

we have been repeatedly trained to do a task.

We do a job few would even consider doing

and most would not even attempt to try.

A job burdened with ever growing responsibility

due to the minutia of a ever expanding bureaucracy.

A grossly undervalued, underappreciated profession

designated part-time by thoughtless administrations

that mouth how important we all are once a year

only to persecute us for every trifling thing later.

If you are lucky enough to survive a number of years

without resigning or becoming a sacrificial lamb

on the altar of a fearful self-serving public face,

you will get a tiny pension for your devoted service.


We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.

The tolerant souls that routinely put up with

a few rude demanding manipulative parents

and their insolent misbehaving little darlings

just to be able to serve the greater majority

of decent well-meaning thoughtful parents

and the precious treasures of tomorrow

they have temporarily entrusted to us.

Like a hamster running on a little wheel,

we go around in circles every single day,

but unlike the hamster we must summon

every instinct and learned skill to insure

every turn we make is executed flawlessly.

We are kept aloft on our spinning wheel

by the deliberate hands of a caring heart

and the many small souls seated behind us

that come to trust us not to make a mistake.

We are the one person in their little lives

that are not allowed to ever let them down

for neither of us may be able to live with it.

We are their school bus drivers…

Written By Poet and Bus Driver Kim Morrison dedicated to fellow school bus drivers everywhere.

The Room

.

A room once filled with life and joyful sound

now stands silent in total darkness.

It’s walls are weighted heavy with sadness,

the child that used to live there can’t be found.


His room looks terribly bleak and dusty.

The smile on the toy clown is upside down.

The tattered toy animals wear a frown.

The child’s room feels cold and empty.


The unloved little boy has long since gone.

He now lives with God in a peaceful place.

No longer will tears stream down his small face.

By tomorrow all his toys will be gone.


In the bare room the rocking horse resides.

All twisted and bent with marks on its sides.

Mother

M is for the many things she does for you.

O is for offering a hug every time you needed it.

T is for the thanks she did not always receive.

H is for the help she was always there to give you.

E is for being the most excellent mom of all.

R is for raising you into the person you become

Heart Arresting Beauty

Discretion tells me I should turn my eyes away,

but with mouth agape I cannot help but gaze

upon the heart arresting beauty now before me.

Why does she not shy away or attempt to conceal

the ravishing  bouquet of her all from my stare?

How could she not notice me just standing there?

Does she not see me or does she simply not care?


She’s a vision sightless eyes would yearn to see,

a goddess beyond the scope of  man’s conception.

Her flowing sparkling auburn hair whispers

eloquently to her beauty in the warm breeze

occasionally hiding one of a huge pair of

opulent all to consuming brown eyes.

Her visually captivating voluptuous body

would anguish a master Renaissance artist

for no brush strokes or mixture of oils

could quite capture the essence of her design.

Those perfectly shaped succulent milky white…


Oh!  Why does that accursed demon’s tormenting ring

always awaken me just before I get to the best part.

The Old Hat

Wrinkled, worn, and weather-beaten

one old hat sits aloft a dusty shelf.

A witness to individual history,

a vision of days gone by

of both good and bad times,

a garment of many memories.


Like a King’s crown,

the hat once sat cocked to the right

over a stern, but wise brow.

Well used and sweat stained,

but worn with dignity and pride

by one unyielding individualist.

A common man by all accounts

of uncommon quality and character.

A man who never lost focus

on the true widgets of life

even when it was at a cost.


A man who once owned :

a pocket full of dreams,

a desire for pure freedom,

a true lust for life,

and one old hat.