A Life of Too Many Maybes

maybe we dream too much,

maybe we are searching 

an inexistent higher purpose, 

maybe we are insignificant 

yet we pretend to be 

maybe we needlessly struggle 

against a force too powerful, 

that will eventually crush us 

and condemn us to oblivion 

 

maybe we should just rest easy, 

be a little kind and gentle to ourselves, 

maybe we should just to revel 

in life's little simplicities 

laugh at our own follies a little more   

maybe we do not know 

that which we think we know 

maybe we are puppets 

who dance to master's lullaby

December Blues

 a slow stroll down dry January 

a tinge of regret masks merry 

of the year past, and a deserved toast, 

to dreams yet to come

a peculiar walk down dry January 

an infinite number of day, all blurry 

all queuing to be counted derelict  

In one cold December morning 

It's been tough, nothing much 

despite deep and honest intentions 

amounted from strenuous efforts 

But, hey, isn't it December? 

That's enough a reason to make merry 

And reward oneself, once more 

for three hundred and sixty five days 

of bliss-filled, or lack thereof, existence

One Midnight

One midnight, 

you will be home, 

but feel stranded in a distant island, 

and the songs you loved play in the background, 

sounding more like dirges than 

songs you can dance to.

Sombre 

something grates your heart, 

you try so much not to think at all 

DON'T THINK! DON'T THINK!

Your brain doesn't obey the command, 

It says that these are affairs of the heart 

And it must be involved - it is the self-appointed judge, jury, witness, 

and the advocate

The brain commands you to picture 

the love of your life 

in someone else arms 

And you do - who are you to disobey a wise man? 

The clock past midnight 

and the dirges play on ... and on

Wakeful Moments

 Every wakeful moment 

The wise spend it planning, learning or earning, 

Losers spend it winnowing their airy dreams, 

Wallowing in their misery, 

And swallowing their future

You Are Alright, Always

 And when you sit to ponder, 

In the middle of a cold and lonely night, 

What will tomorrow bring, you wonder 

Be still, you are alight, always 

Some of the times life seems like a walk, 

In a forest full of hungry wild animals, 

Be still, you make them up in your silent talk 

You are alright, always

 

You are always alright, 

There are no nights any darker 

You are only scared of your light, 

Be still, you are alright, always. 

 

You do not need dope to cope 

Time is never in haste, 

You could wallow in misery or chose hope 

Because, in the end, you will always be right 

 

The Country Boy

the blank pages dares me, 

taunts me, mocks me to fill it, 

I can't think of anything, 

I can't arrange the idea inside 

my head, 

into something coherent, 

something that would communicate the theme 

"Look here's today's poem"

In the background, a soulful Vince Gill

song "Go Rest High on That Mountain" 

It's kind of nostalgic, 

brings forth a memory I haven't live through yet 

and I realise I won't ever live such a moment

I have no desire

Deep inside I am country boy 

not so well-versed with so many things 

Well, and this is today's poem 

for me and that one reader who shows up 

on this page 

I wish you weren't anonymous, 

my one loyal reader

The Bicycle

As a kid, I thought riding a bicycle 

was an inborn skill, 

I'd watch others graceful hop on the 

two wheeler and pedal to their destinies 

I might have asked myself, 

"What's too difficult about it?" 

 

Then I learned the hard way 

My first contact with a bicycle earned 

me a scar 

I tried to apply what I had seen masters do, 

And to my dismay, I realised there's more to 

a bicycle than simply hopping on it and pedaling away 

There'd be a thousand failed attempts, 

a thousand falls, and a few scars 

Before I could earn the right 

to gracefully hop on it and ride away