Simple Times Gone

Where have the simple times gone;
The walking through dust cover dirt roads
Where skies are clear of smog
And only noise are animals and birds singing their song
Where no tallest skyscraper exist
Or tightly compact housing;
No problems of stress
While driving a car
Only the simple walk
Of enjoying nature,
Which is vast to what has happen now
Nearly destroy by modern, fast pace, stressful times.

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What Will You Write Poet

What will you write poet?
I write with weaving lines that alternate between rhythms;
With measured beats that will cascade to order cadence
Like drums upon a long ago battlefield,
You can hear their rat a tat, rat a tat still echoing now.

I write with flourish gust of my pen
The metaphors come closing in
As they fight off similes to gain substance in my poem
They slash the likes and as,
Making themselves known to the reader.

I write to the world to show how I feel,
The down trodden days of polical unrest,
Dishearten and sadden what I see.
How to change can only come from words and understanding
With one another to find that common ground.

I write about the animals;
And to nature where they are losing a desperate battle
Locked arm and arm against human interaction
They want their voice heard
And, I poet will give it to them
So, they can rise above
And find a place to coexist
With the ever changing landscape of a world filled with man.

I write of happy times and sad times too
Where new life comes into being
While old slips off the shore
To some distant place far from our reaches
In another realm beyond what we cannot see.

I write, to write what I know
Or to become inspire to write
Something different and new
With hopes that the next poem
Will lead me down new paths to explore.

Life and Death Letter

Death, stop your gloom and doom.
You always look so downcast.
Why, can’t you see happiness
in joys of what surround you?

Easy for you to say, Life.
You, make everything so full
of your life. You bring in
new beginnings. There is
no sorrow or grief.

Your letters leave me
wondering if I can show you
the souls you take
still gives their love ones hope.

Hope in what?
That dying is not the end?
I’ve heard too many times
from you before;
death may not be the final end.

I know we converse back and forth;
but again open your dark heart
to see that we are part
of the cyle of life and death.
In which not all you take
is gone from loves ones.

I will try to remember.
You, Life give good wisdom.
I will write again
in hoping I will see
your meaning in what you said.

Anytime my fellow worker.
I will wait to hear from you
and write again soon.

Favorite Toy: Puzzles

Learned my love from puzzles young
Just sitting on the floor holding pieces
Just testing out by trial and error
Getting excited when I found one
Matching correct pieces that go together

At threes years old I held the piece
Turned it one way; then another
A big piece to fit with nine others
Try it in one area; it will not go
Try another it finally fits

At seven years old I held the piece
The one I knew would fit 100-piece puzzle
Smaller than I had at three
Turned it once and found the spot
Connected it in and it’s a fit

Another I’m older I hold a piece
Gleam from over from 1,000 pieces
Picked it up; eyed it carefully
Turn it once the other way
I still to do puzzle still today

Becoming A Poet

Small hands reach for words on refrigerator
Take one word then another
Short lines begin to form
Two-line poems on refrigerator stay awhile
Until another idea replaces them
Small notepad with words written
Writing about sibling who is annoying
Short, short stories written were no one can find
Writing continued, on and off through school
Few poems written from class assignments
Saved in a small notebook or in desk
A gap when started working
No poems or writing were produced
A year of low; forced into unemployment
Poem writing to relieve oneself
From not being able to find job
Steadily writing grew from notebook
Copied into word documents many
Early one February morning
A blog was started to post about my poems
Slow and steady it began to gain
Followers flocked to read my poems
Until, I though I’ll compile a book
I gathered few poems; tweak them here and there
Found free self-publishing service for one still unemployed
Create a book, a cover too
Paid for only a proof which I could do
Promote book on blog; few copies sold
From no job but writing kept on going
Another year; another self-published book
More followers joined
Found a niche; writing poetry
Now a poet with nine self-published books

April 19th Prompt: An “origin story” is the back-story of how a character becomes a protagonist, or how super-heroines (or heroes) received their super-powers. Write a poem which imagines your back-story as either a poet or as a super-hero(ine).