Moving is a pain in the butt disruption,
That interrupts your life like a volcanic eruption,
It means packing and indexing and throwing of things,
That you collected ages since the dynasties of the Ming’s,
You got your old shirt from grade four soccer team game,
And a medal you won for volleyball your reason for fame,
Your lucky underwear that has not been washed since 1962,
You know they still works as to the wall they stick like glue,
You pack your books your clothes and your computer stuffs,
Your CD’s your DVD’s and your old albums and photographs,
Time to move, a new place, start afresh with a new collection,
Onto the new place, a new adventure, a new direction,

Hair, Post Mortem

I have plenty of hair it flows and it curls,
When I was much younger it attracted the girls,
It was blondish reddish thick and deep and dense,
I grew it long but it was the sixties I say in my defense,
At times I had it knotted in a ponytail as it was the practice,
and long hair meant I was not looking like a dry desert cactus,
As the years passed and evolved so did my hair metamorphosed,
Now all my hair migrated to my ears and my nose, case closed,

My Long Walks to Nowhere

I like to take long walks to nowhere,
I don’t walk like a tortoise nor run like an hare,
I start with no purpose and I go from right there,
To a place unknown,uncharted, with a song and a prayer,
In my walks I encounter many new places spots of charm,
Away from the loud city noise, more of a quiet farm,
In my walks many strange visions I see weird and bizarre,
Piccolo players singers and even a man playing guitar,
I do not mind as I walk with my shoe box tied to a string,
On my long walks to nowhere when winter turns to spring,

B. B. King

B. B. King has gone to play elsewhere,
My guess he will be playing right there,
With the big band, somewhere up above,
Picking Lucille with music of blues and love,
Almost 90 years we had B. B. King with us,
Playing his Lucille with blues, rhythm and jazz,
Now he will continue entertaining with the best,
When time comes, I shall be his guest.

The Cold Month of May

the leaves have been taking their time
no leaves in May is considered a capital crime
Winter on the calendar long gone but still here
hanging on to the roof tops a lone musketeer
half May and the cold nights still endure
winter must have taken a major detour
the squirrels mixed up should we eat or collect
the chipmunks trying to show a little respect
air-condition or furnace what will bring day
on these days of the middle of May