Ode To Brumhilda

Drive my truck!
It's a religious experience,
An act of blind faith.
You will find God
Or at least religion,
Maybe even a new religion.
I can almost guarantee it.
Slide in behind the wheel
And say a prayer.
Strap yourself into a ton of
Made in the USA, 1993,
Candy apple red rust and steel
On top of a 16 gallon tank
Of 93 octane gasoline and
A faulty fuel pump!
Go ahead and
Push the proverbial envelope,
Key the ignition
And feel the love!
YYEEE-HHAAWWW!

One Dozen Isn't Enough

Two dozen roses
For my love, for my woman,
Because one dozen
Isn't enough to celebrate,
To welcome her home,
Or just because for the
Woman who she is.
My woman deserves
Two dozen roses
And then some.

Progressive Nightmare?

She invades my dreams.
Standing in our bedroom.
"I guess one time
Wouldn't hurt anything."
She tells me as
She peels off her shirt and
Her large pendulous breasts
Swing out freely.
She undresses.
Then lays down
On our bed and
Opens herself for me,
Enticing me.
Old memories and emotions
And the pain of the past resurface,
Like salt rubbed into an open wound.
I'm not afraid to look at her now.
I wake up. Was it
Just a dream or
A progressive nightmare?

Amy's Sunrise

Amy watches the sunrise
As we drive home together.

She sees the entire eastern sky
On fire and burning up.

She sees the the bright morning light
Beaming on the clouds as if they're on fire.

The sun's rising is just one part of
The whole she shares with me.

As An Agency Nurse

I am not much different
Than a mercenary
When I work agency.

Little more than a hired hand,
A hired gun, indifferent to
All else which goes into a real job.

I'm just in it for the money.
Going wherever the job is
And taking whatever the assignment is.

It's all good.
A job is a job is a job.
Just pay me and it will be done.

I'm not quite as bad as a pirate,
After all I'm still a nurse, just
Not much better than a common mercenary.

When the shift is done, I go
Back home and hang it up, until
I line up another job or get called up again.

You Call Me Tony

You call me Tony
When you're ranting and you're raving
About my daughters, my ex, and I.

You're ragging on my father, Tony.
You're ragging on me, as a father myself
And all without being a parent yourself.

You tell me that you love me
And you want us to get married.
We've even bought the rings.

Then you explode like a temper tantrumed child.
Waving your hands and arms all through the air
And throwing things about and at me.

You'll say all sorts of things
Just to hurt and pain me.
You are well aware of what you're doing.

I hope you're feeling better.
I bite my tongue and I'll
Keep my silence - mostly.

I can understand a lot of this
Is rooted in your past. Your mother, your father,
The men, the marriages, and your childhood and all.

Buried in those entire blank areas of your memory
Is still the little girl you were.
It's where it all began.

When you act out like this
You remind me so much
Of my grandfather's wife, Mary.

You argue just to argue
And fight simply for the sake of fighting
And just so you can call me Tony.

Parenting

God does not give us children,
Only lends them to us
For a very short while.
We love and discipline them,
Are charged with their teaching and training.
Then we give them back to God
And to themselves to live their own lives.
Perhaps to become parents themselves?
It isn't easy.
Even then we are still parents.
We do not stop parenting, ever.
Our roles are changed only a little.
Then we watch and pray a lot.
We're always praying and watching.
Hopefully we, they benefit from the experience.

Solitude

Amy's just gone to work.
Peace and quiet now.
I turn off the TV and
Am soaking in the hottub
Beneath the grapefruit tree
With a hot cup of strong, black coffee.
This particular morning is comfortably cool.
Sun's rising and the
Birds are singing their song.
Life is good and
Only getting better.