You

might

.

a

t

.

times,

–

–

feel

.

s

o

.

cold

.

a

n

d

.

alone . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

all

.

along

.

t

h

a

t

.

rough

.

a

n

d

.

rugged

.

road . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ all

along

.

t

h

a

t

.

rough

.

a

n

d

.

rugged

.

road . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

leading

lower,

–

–

than

lower,

–

–

than

low . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

where

.

only

.

t

h

e

.

shadows

.

go . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

b

u

t

–

–

–

I

.

w

a

n

t

.

you

.

t

o

.

know . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

w

i

l

l

.

always

.

b

e

.

there

.

t

o

.

hold

.

t

h

e

.

end

.

o

f

.

the

.

rope . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

will

.

never

.

l

e

t

.

go . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ I

.

w

i

l

l

.

never

.

l

e

t

.

go . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

f

o

r

–

–

–

no

matter

.

how

far,

.

.

o

r

.

.

how

low,

.

o

r

.

how

deep

–

–

you

go . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

w

i

l

l

.

always

.

b

e

.

there

.

a

t

.

the

.

crossroads . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

will

.

gently

–

–

tow,

.

a

n

d

.

tug,

.

a

n

d

.

tow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

w

i

l

l

.

tow,

.

a

n

d

.

tug,

.

a

n

d

.

tow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

w

i

l

l

.

tow,

.

a

n

d

.

tug,

.

a

n

d

.

tow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

w

i

l

l

.

tow,

.

a

n

d

.

tug,

.

a

n

d

.

tow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

u

n

t

i

l

–

–

–

you

.

release

.

t

h

a

t

.

heavy

.

load,

.

.

a

n

d

.

.

are

.

ready

.

t

o

.

go . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ even

when

.

t

h

e

.

journey

.

i

s

.

painful

.

a

n

d

.

slow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ even

when

–

–

there’s

.

nothing

.

b

u

t

.

sleet

.

a

n

d

.

snow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ even

after

–

–

blow,

.

u

p

o

n

.

blow,

.

u

p

o

n

.

blow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

w

i

t

h

–

–

–

nothing

.

b

u

t

.

shame

.

t

o

.

show . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

f

o

r

–

–

–

there

.

i

s

.

never

.

a

.

place

.

s

o

.

devoid

.

o

f

.

soul,

.

.

t

h

a

t

.

.

you

.

c

o

u

l

d

.

go . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

which

.

w

o

u

l

d

.

shake

.

m

y

.

boundless

.

belief

.

o

f

.

hope . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

t

h

a

t

.

.

.

I

.

w

i

l

l

.

tug

.

a

n

d

.

tow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

tug

.

a

n

d

.

tow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

tug

.

a

n

d

.

tow . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

t

h

e

–

–

–

end

.

o

f

.

that

.

rope . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

t

–

–

–

the

.

crossroads . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

someday

.

bring

.

y

o

u

.

home.

Reflection: This was a popular inspirational/hope-themed poem I wrote back in July of 2022 to reflect a strong and undying commitment of helping someone through his or her life-struggle until a brighter time arrives. I used the song “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” by The Hollies to play in the background at low volume to create the “moodset” for the poem. If you listen to the song at low volume while reading this poem, you might better get the “feel” of it.

I

.

thought

.

a

b

o

u

t

.

you,

–

–

when

.

I

.

turned

.

a

n

d

.

tuned

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

moon . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ I

turned

.

a

n

d

.

tuned

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

moon,

.

.

a

n

d

.

.

moved

.

d

o

w

n

.

those

.

avenues,

–

–

where

.

dreams

.

a

r

e

.

brewed

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

blues . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ I

moved

.

d

o

w

n

.

those

.

avenues,

–

–

where

.

dreams

.

a

r

e

.

brewed

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

blues

.

o

f

.

truth . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

then,

.

.

I

.

thought

.

a

b

o

u

t

.

you . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

thought

.

a

b

o

u

t

.

you,

–

–

who

.

w

a

s

.

always

.

one

.

o

f

.

the

.

few,

.

.

I

.

did

.

n

o

t

.

have

.

t

o

.

choose

.

o

r

.

prove . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

thought

.

a

b

o

u

t

.

you,

–

–

who

.

w

a

s

.

one

.

o

f

.

the

.

few,

–

–

who

.

always

.

h

a

d

.

the

.

time

.

a

n

d

.

the

.

room . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ you

always

.

h

a

d

.

the

.

time

.

a

n

d

.

the

.

room

.

f

o

r

.

fools,

–

–

who

.

lose

.

a

n

d

.

choose

.

t

o

.

brood . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ they

lose

.

a

n

d

.

choose

.

t

o

.

brood . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

only

.

remember

.

w

h

e

n

.

they

.

turn

.

a

n

d

.

tune

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

moon . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ they

turn

.

a

n

d

.

tune

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

moon . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

move

.

d

o

w

n

.

those

.

avenues,

–

–

where

.

dreams

.

a

r

e

.

brewed

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

blues . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ they

move

.

d

o

w

n

.

those

.

avenues,

–

–

where

.

dreams

.

a

r

e

.

brewed

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

blues

.

o

f

.

truth . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

an

.

old

.

b

u

t

.

warm

.

a

n

d

.

welcome

.

youth,

–

–

resumes

.

a

n

d

.

becomes

.

new . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

w

i

t

h

–

–

–

too

.

much

.

a

n

d

.

too

.

many

.

t

o

.

pursue . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ that

old

.

b

u

t

.

warm

.

a

n

d

.

welcome

.

youth,

–

–

resumes

.

a

n

d

.

becomes

.

new . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

w

i

t

h

–

–

–

too

.

much

.

a

n

d

.

too

.

many

.

t

o

.

pursue . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

f

o

r

–

–

–

those

–

–

who

.

move

.

d

o

w

n

.

the

.

avenues,

–

–

where

.

dreams

.

a

r

e

.

brewed

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

blues . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ for

fools

.

w

h

o

.

lose,

.

a

n

d

.

choose

.

t

o

.

brood . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ for

fools

.

w

h

o

.

lose,

.

a

n

d

.

choose

.

t

o

.

brood . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ for

fools

.

w

h

o

.

lose,

.

a

n

d

.

choose

.

t

o

.

brood

.

d

o

w

n

.

those

.

avenues . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

then,

–

–

turn

.

a

n

d

.

tune

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

moon . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ they

turn

.

a

n

d

.

tune

.

i

n

t

o

.

the

.

moon . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

think

.

a

b

o

u

t

.

you.

Reflection: This was a reflective-themed poem that I wrote back in August of 2022 where the contemplator looks back on a wonderful experience he or she had with someone in the past – whether a friendship, romance, or something else. I played the wonderful song “Feels So Good” by Chuck Mangione (especially the more melancholic intro to the album version of the song) and the poem pretty much wrote itself from that (playing the song repeatedly on low volume to create the “moodset” for the poem). It was written fairly quickly – like a couple of hours or so. If you listen to the song at low volume while reading this poem, you might better get the “feel” of it.

The

sunset

fades

–

–

those

carefree

days

.

o

f

.

passionate

plays

.

a

n

d

.

shimmering

champagnes . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ the

carefree

days

.

o

f

.

passionate

plays

.

a

n

d

.

shimmering

champagnes

–

–

that

somehow

–

–

got

away . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ they

somehow

–

–

got

away . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

those

carefree

days

.

o

f

.

passionate

plays

.

a

n

d

.

shimmering

champagnes . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ the

carefree

days

.

o

f

.

passionate

plays

.

a

n

d

.

shimmering

champagnes

–

–

that

time

erased . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

i

n

–

–

–

those

yesterdays

–

–

that

got

away . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ they

got

away

.

a

n

d

.

time

erased . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

b

u

t

.

.

.

I

can

sometimes

–

–

still

see

–

–

the

pristine

places

.

a

n

d

.

the

smiling

faces . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ I

can

sometimes

–

–

still

see

–

–

the

pristine

places

.

a

n

d

.

the

smiling

faces . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

even

feel

the

–

–

warm

embraces . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ yes,

I

can

–

–

even

feel

–

–

the

warm

embraces . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

i

n

–

–

–

those

carefree

days

.

o

f

.

passionate

plays

.

a

n

d

.

shimmering

champagnes

–

–

that

somehow

–

–

got

away.

Reflection:  I was playing the wonderful song “Times of Your Life” by Paul Anka and the poem pretty much wrote itself – when I played the song repeatedly on low volume to create the “moodset” for the poem. The poem was written fairly quickly – like an hour or so. If you listen to the song at low volume while reading this poem, you might better get the “feel” of it.

I

love

.

t

h

e

.

rain

–

–

upon

.

t

h

e

.

window

panes

.

o

f

.

that

cozy,

–

–

candlelight

cafe . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ that

cozy,

–

–

candlelight

cafe

–

–

where

we

–

–

could

stay

.

a

n

d

.

get

away . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

We

–

–

could

stay

.

a

n

d

.

get

away

.

i

n

.

that

cozy,

–

–

candlelight

cafe . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ get

away

.

f

r

o

m

.

the

pain . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ get

away

.

f

r

o

m

.

the

blame . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ get

away

.

f

r

o

m

.

the

same,

–

o

l

d

–

same . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

We

could

stay

.

a

n

d

.

embrace

.

i

n

.

a

place

–

–

far

away . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ far

away

.

f

r

o

m

.

the

plans,

.

a

n

d

.

hopes,

.

a

n

d

.

dreams

–

–

that

would

–

–

flame,

.

a

n

d

.

flicker,

.

a

n

d

.

fade . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ far

away

.

f

r

o

m

.

the

debts

–

–

we

would

–

–

accumulate

.

a

n

d

.

pay . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

pay

.

a

n

d

.

accumulate . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

again,

.

a

n

d

.

again,

.

a

n

d

.

again . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ far

away

.

f

r

o

m

.

all

.

t

h

e

.

reasons

.

a

n

d

.

ways

–

–

we

felt

.

s

o

.

ashamed

.

a

n

d

.

thought

.

w

e

.

had

.

t

o

.

find

.

a

.

place

.

t

o

.

pray . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ far

away

.

f

r

o

m

.

the

things

–

–

they

–

–

might

do

.

o

r

.

say . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

i

f

–

–

–

they

knew

–

–

we

felt

–

–

this

way . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ if

–

–

they

knew

–

–

we

felt

–

–

this

way . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

love

.

t

h

e

.

rain

–

–

upon

.

t

h

e

.

window

panes . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

love

.

t

h

e

.

rain

–

–

upon

.

t

h

e

.

window

panes . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

love

.

t

h

e

.

rain

–

–

upon

.

t

h

e

.

window

panes . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

o

f

–

–

–

that

cozy,

–

–

candlelight

cafe . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ that

cozy,

–

–

candlelight

cafe . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

where

we

–

–

could

embrace,

.

a

n

d

.

stay,

.

a

n

d

.

get

away.

Reflection: This poem is written as a reflection on a forbidden romance. I wrote this poem using a much-loved 70s song (“Me and Mrs. Jones” by Billy Paul). So, if you listen to the song at low volume while reading this poem, you might better get the “feel” of it. It only took me a couple of hours to write it which is unusually fast when I write poetry.

There

once

.

w

a

s

.

a

place . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

there

once

.

w

a

s

.

a

time . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

when

it

.

w

a

s

.

almost

mine . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ it

.

w

a

s

.

almost

mine . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

It

.

w

a

s

.

almost

mine . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

i

n

–

–

–

the

days

.

o

f

.

grand

design . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ it

.

w

a

s

.

almost

mine . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

It

.

w

a

s

.

almost

mine . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

w

h

e

n

–

–

–

everything

smiled

.

a

n

d

.

rhymed . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

Everything

smiled

.

a

n

d

.

everything

rhymed . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

Everything

smiled

.

a

n

d

.

everything

rhymed . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

Everything

smiled

.

a

n

d

.

everything

rhymed . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

it

.

w

a

s

.

easy

.

t

o

.

decide . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

s

o

–

–

–

yes,

–

–

there

once

.

w

a

s

.

a

place . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

there

once

.

w

a

s

.

a

time . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

when

it

.

w

a

s

.

almost

mine.

Reflection: This was a melancholy-themed poem that I wrote back in June of 2022 where the contemplator looks back on a once-in-a-lifetime experience, romance, success, or opportunity where he could have gotten exactly what he or she wanted at the time but didn’t for whatever reason and is now taunted and haunted by the memory.

I played the wonderful song “Could It Be Magic” by Barry Manilow, and the poem pretty much wrote itself from that (playing the song repeatedly on low volume to create the “moodset” for the poem). It was written fairly quickly – like a half an hour or so. I didn’t feel the need to continue reflecting on it and tweaking the words like I usually do. It just felt complete, so I immediately published it. If you listen to the song at low volume while reading this poem, you might better get the “feel” of it.

The

crowd

.

w

a

s

.

all

around . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

s

–

–

–

you

wore

.

t

h

a

t

.

crown . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

The

crowd

.

w

a

s

.

all

around . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

w

h

e

n

–

–

–

I 

hit

.

t

h

e

.

ground . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I 

hit

.

t

h

e

.

ground . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

i

n

–

–

–

the

middle

.

o

f

.

that

round . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I 

hit

.

t

h

e

.

ground . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

i

n

–

–

–

the

middle

.

o

f

.

that

round . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I 

hit

.

t

h

e

.

ground . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

i

n

–

–

–

the

middle

.

o

f

.

that

round . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

w

i

t

h

–

–

–

the

memories

–

–

counting

down.

Reflection: This was a melancholy-themed poem that I wrote back in June of 2022 where the contemplator comes to the realization that when his or her romantic relationship is put to the test, it turns out to not be nearly as strong or solid as previously thought. This poem came to me at a party where I observed couples being surrounded by the temptations of the moment. I pondered how many relationships ended as a result of such parties and events.

If 

you

.

d

o

. 

nothing

.

t

o

.

appear . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

o

r

–

–

–

make

.

i

t

.

seem

–

–

you

.

w

e

r

e

.

here . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

t

h

e

n

–

–

–

you’ll

.

o

n

l

y

.

disappear.

Reflection:  This tiny poem was inspired by Kevin Morby’s song: “Disappearing.” I played this song in the background to create the “moodset” and inspire the writing of the poem. If you listen to the song at low volume while reading this poem, you might better get the “feel” of it.

It

must

.

h

a

v

e

.

been

fun,

.

w

i

t

h

.

all

.

o

f

.

the

drink,

.

a

n

d

.

drugs . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

It

must

.

h

a

v

e

.

been

fun,

.

w

i

t

h

.

all

.

o

f

.

those

pages

.

o

n

.

the

run . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

It

must

.

h

a

v

e

.

been

fun,

–

–

hearing

.

t

h

e

.

starting

gun

–

–

without

.

t

h

e

.

sun . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

l

o

n

g

–

–

–

after

.

t

h

e

.

day

.

w

a

s

.

done . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

It

must

.

h

a

v

e

.

been

fun

.

f

o

r

.

those,

–

–

once

younger

.

t

o

.

be

perceived

–

–

much

older . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

for

those

–

–

once

cooler

.

t

o

.

be

perceived

–

–

much

colder . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

They

became

–

–

much

older . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

they

became

–

–

much

colder . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

They

became

–

–

much

older . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

they

became

–

–

much

colder . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

They

became

–

–

much

older . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

they

became

–

–

much

colder

–

–

t

h

a

n

–

–

the

rest . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

w

i

t

h

–

–

–

all

.

o

f

.

that

fuss,

.

a

n

d

.

fun,

.

a

n

d

.

pages

.

o

n

.

the

run . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ with

all

.

o

f

.

that

buzz,

.

a

n

d

.

rush,

.

a

n

d

.

lust

–

–

without

.

t

h

e

.

sun.

Reflection: This was a personal struggle-themed poem that I wrote back in June of 2022 where the contemplator looks back on some of the observed whirlwind experiences of the past – and the resulting impacts and consequences. I wrote most of the poem while out one night. It was written fairly quickly – like an hour or so. I didn’t feel the need to continue reflecting on it and tweaking the words like I usually do. It just felt complete, so I immediately published it.

Didn’t

.

w

e

.

live

.

a

.

life

.

full

.

o

f

.

cheer . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

Didn’t

.

w

e

.

live

.

a

.

life

.

s

o

.

dear . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

racing

ahead

–

–

when

nothing

.

w

a

s

.

clear . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

pulling

away

.

f

r

o

m

.

a

past

.

s

t

i

l

l

.

drawing

near . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

burning

.

f

o

r

.

the

.

lead . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

burning

.

f

o

r

.

the

.

lead . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

burning

.

f

o

r

.

the

.

lead . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

b

u

t

–

–

–

still

arriving

.

a

t

.

the

rear . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

s

o

–

–

–

we

speed,

.

a

n

d

.

steer,

.

a

n

d

.

veer . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

We

speed,

.

a

n

d

.

steer,

.

a

n

d

.

veer . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

We

speed,

.

a

n

d

.

steer,

.

a

n

d

.

veer . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

again,

.

a

n

d

.

again,

.

a

n

d

.

again . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

burning

.

f

o

r

.

the

.

lead . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

burning

.

f

o

r

.

the

.

lead . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

burning

.

f

o

r

.

the

.

lead . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

outrunning

.

t

h

e

.

fears . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

outrunning

.

t

h

e

.

tears . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

outrunning

.

t

h

e

.

mirrors . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

Always

leaving

.

b

u

t

.

never

here . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

Always

leaving

.

b

u

t

.

never

here . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

Always

leaving

.

b

u

t

.

never

here . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

outrunning

.

t

h

e

.

fears . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

outrunning

.

t

h

e

.

tears . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

outrunning

.

t

h

e

.

mirrors . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

outrunning

.

t

h

e

.

years . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

We

outrun

.

t

h

e

.

years . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

We

outrun

.

t

h

e

.

years . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

We

outrun

.

t

h

e

.

years . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

burning

.

f

o

r

.

the

.

lead . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

burning

.

f

o

r

.

the

.

lead . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

burning

.

f

o

r

.

the

.

lead . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

b

u

t

–

–

–

still

arriving

.

a

t

.

the

rear . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ we

arrive

.

a

t

.

the

rear . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

–

–

–

then . . .

      –

      –

      –

      .

      .

      .

(again)

      –

      –

      –

      .

      .

      .

    we

    end

      .

      u

      p

      .

  here.

Reflection: This was an energetic, personal struggle-themed poem that I wrote back in May of 2022 where the affected party eagerly strives to get ahead in a life that consumes – ending up in a place where his/her entire life experience has been the pursuit but not much more resulting in a lifelong journey filled with the blur of vacant spaces all along the way.  I was playing the song “London Thunder” by The Foals when the following lines came to mind: “Always leaving but never here.” (the actual lyrics were: “Always leaving, never you.”) – so I modified it slightly. The poem pretty much wrote itself from there. So, if you listen to the song at low volume while reading this poem, you might better get the “feel” of it. It only took me an hour or so to write it which is unusually fast when I write poetry.

I

.

g

r

e

w

.

up

.

i

n

.

a

.

time,

–

–

where

.

fast

.

f

o

o

d

.

bags

.

a

n

d

.

glass

.

bottles

.

w

o

u

l

d

.

carelessly

.

fly

.

f

r

o

m

.

cars

.

driving

.

by . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ I

.

g

r

e

w

.

up

.

i

n

.

a

.

time . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

g

r

e

w

.

up

.

i

n

.

a

.

time,

–

–

where

.

t

h

e

.

truth

.

t

o

l

d

.

lies,

.

a

n

d

.

even

.

goodness

–

–

sometimes

.

denied

.

a

n

d

.

closed

.

i

t

s

.

eyes

.

t

o

.

the

.

uglier

.

sides . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ I

.

g

r

e

w

.

up

.

i

n

.

a

.

time . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

So,

.

when

.

y

o

u

.

reflect

.

o

n

.

the

.

past,

.

.

a

n

d

.

.

tell

.

me

.

o

f

.

all

.

t

h

e

.

golden

.

times

.

i

t

.

had,

–

–

which

.

did

.

n

o

t

.

last . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

can

.

o

n

l

y

.

ponder

.

why,

.

.

y

o

u

.

.

would

.

want

.

t

o

.

believe

.

t

h

o

s

e

.

lies . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

 ~ I

can

.

o

n

l

y

.

ponder

.

why,

.

.

y

o

u

.

.

would

.

decide

.

t

o

.

die

.

b

y

.

living

.

a

.

p

a

s

t

.

life,

–

–

instead

.

o

f

.

living

.

i

n

.

the

.

light

.

o

f

.

the

.

present,

.

.

a

n

d

.

.

a

.

future

.

that

.

i

s

.

wide

.

a

n

d

.

high,

.

.

a

n

d

.

.

brighter

.

t

h

a

n

.

bright . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

can

.

o

n

l

y

.

ponder

.

why . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

can

.

o

n

l

y

.

ponder

.

why . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

I

.

can

.

o

n

l

y

.

ponder

.

why . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

f

o

r

.

.

.

I

.

g

r

e

w

.

up

.

i

n

.

a

.

time,

–

–

which

.

w

a

s

.

far

.

l

e

s

s

.

kind . . .

–

–

–

.

.

.

a

n

d

.

.

.

I

.

g

r

e

w

.

up

.

i

n

.

a

.

time,

–

–

which

.

paid

.

t

o

o

.

little

.

mind.

Reflection: This was a reflective-themed poem that I wrote back in April of 2022 where the contemplator questions and is conflicted by the mindless commonplace reflections on the “good ole days.” I was playing the song “Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on Earth)” by George Harrison and other 70s songs on my 1973-1975 playlist when the opening lines came to me. The poem pretty much wrote itself from there. So, if you listen to the song at low volume while reading this poem, you might better get the “feel” of it. It only took me an hour or so to write it which is unusually fast when I write poetry.