Expressions Of Life

The Conversation

Sitting in my living room watching TV,
suddenly hearing someone call,
a voice coming from the other side
of my apartment wall.

I couldn’t make out the name,
turning down the TV just the same.
Started listening.
The conversation getting quite intense.
She spoke about having lost the feeling,
having no money and lack of romance.

Constantly putting down the seat on the toilet bowl,
cooking, washing, and ironing his pants.
Complaining about having no one to talk to
and having no friends.

Her voice sounding angry.
He’s not all that great in bed.
He doesn’t like to work,
plays Nintendo instead.

All got quiet.
I saw my chance,
ran to the kitchen,
opened the cupboard,
picked out a glass,
wanting crystal,
not plastic or rubber.

Trying to hurry, knowing the best
of the conversation was near,
opening the refrigerator door,
just long enough to grab a beer.
Holding the glass against the wall,
against my ear, making it easier for me to hear.

It was easy to see this
was better than reality TV.

Pulled my chair up to the wall.
Heard her break down and start to bawl.
Between swigs of my beer
I could make out some words;
being tired, marrying such a loser,
stating of being fooled
by a person that misrepresented himself,
while dating, he spoke of his wealth.

How he doesn’t shower or shave,
how he smells in bed,
not brushing his teeth after being fed.

Suddenly, everything got quiet.
Steps were heard on the floor.
I heard the opening and closing
of my neighbor’s front door.

Thinking this woman being so unhappy,
depleting her soul, having married such a loser.
Wondering, what kind of woman
would marry such an A-Hole?

Sneaking to the window, on the curtain
unlatching the hook, to get a good look;
as any man would.
To my surprise, there my wife stood.
Needless to say with a look of fear,
I looked in the mirror.
Feeling and seeing in my eye,
running down my cheek
was a lazy wet tear.

A Lie or For National Pride

I’d rather not remember,
but I can’t forget 911
 to where it lead.

Watching the towers fall.
Our president making the call.
Making my blood boil !
Was it for freedom or just for oil?

Was it a viscous lie,
or for national pride?
Questioning, taking
Americans for a ride.

Our deficit over grown.
The economy down to the bone.

For years Bin Laden,
leader of the terrorist band,
with technology today, able to
see a grain of sand in someone’s hand. Come on!

Sending our young kin,
putting them in harms way.
Our government should think again.

Not taking a scientist designing a rocket,
to figure the government is picking our pocket.

The sure cure is to use a lure.
Bringing to the table
the method of barter.
Two bushels of wheat for
one barrel of oil for starters.

Not wanting to comprehend.
Dealing with an honest hand.
Let them stand.
Eat a mouthful of sand.

Knowing the U.S. feeds two thirds of the world.
Knowing this is where the power lies.
Some allies condemning our tries.
Leaving no doubt, what we’re talking about!

Feeling Worthless and Old, Just Taking Up Space

Yesterday gathering my mind, answers trying to find,
looking in the mirror, the face conveyed back, a disposition of plea.
It was plain enough to see, getting old isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
I recollect this occurring to others, never thinking it would transpire to me.

Now with gray in my hair,
my body brittle and old, in need of repair,
wrinkles of wear and tear embellish my face.
Empty eyes of despair, I hang my head in disgrace,
growing over time weary of the chase.

In my mind, an open shut case.
Outlasting my lifetime membership in the human race.
I look onto the Lord, to name the time and place.
Feeling worthless and old, now just taking up space.

Oh I don’t mean to sound bitter,  I’ve lived my life.
For years I was regarded the pick of the litter.
From a young age being the teams leader.
Later in life, successful, by concluding
all that is gold, does not glitter.
I took pride, never being acknowledged as a loser or a quitter.

Even though at times, I now see life as a steep up hill climb.
Finding it hard taking forever, one day at a time.
I’m guilty of a victimless crime, surpassing my fruitful time line.
Leaving me withering on the vine reaching,
for everybody cries out for somebody sometime.

In a rest home sitting, staring into the face of death,
it’s only fitting attached to oxygen, and wires,
I struggle to catch my breath.
Alone wearing  Depends, since my bowels and bladder,
“unlike me,” now have a mind of their own. 
As I bitch and moan, dialing my kids phone.
I get, ‘Sorry, not home. Leave a message at the tone.’

I can only guess the Lord having a solitary plan, I’ll soon see.
Till then, I can’t look at life as it is, but as it will be.
Believing in my heart the lord will look after me.
Meanwhile, feeling like a withered yellow leaf, hanging on my families green tree.