A poor Poet's Request

If I should die upon this day, 

and my soul to Heaven should flee,
cast my mortal shell away,
and think nothing more of me. 

I’ve not a dime left to my name.
My accounts have all gone bare.
So, my love, if it’s all the same,
find a hole and bury me there. 

I’ve no works that I have written,
no songs that children may sing
no hearts or souls have I smitten.
No, I’ve not accomplished a thing.

The things of which I’m proud of
are the children that we have raised,
our lives filled with laughter and love
up to this fading day.

So dump my body in the woods,
and keep what little you own.
Spare the money for needed goods,
and leave my soul to go it alone.

County Road 400

A sunny blue day, now drowning in red.
A blazer with evil steering the wheel
Does the deed, and leaves the poor man for dead,
The very thought in my mind seems unreal.
A bright young future, now shrouded in black
Lays sprawled out upon the cooling black-top.
Dreams of the future shattered by impact
By the careless driver that wouldn’t stop.
As jagged steel tore through once solid leg
Shredding the flesh into ghastly meat strips,
To what proud saint did he turn to and beg?
What desperate prayer rolled off of his lips?
          What is it they found that steeled up their mind
          And against him all of heaven aligned,
          Refusing to put that day in rewind?

And what wicked saint protected that ghoul
That could leave a man lying in the road?
How could he be favored by sacred rule
And reside in our savior’s abode?
There’s a man whose joys were simple and few
Who is now floating between life and death,
With afterlife glowing well within view,
Should he as well choose to forsake himself.
As emergency crews rush to the scene,
Attempting to keep a beat in the heart,
The young man gasps air, and gurgles a scream.
The crews continue to practice their art.
          In agonies grasp, he just wants to die.
          With so much pain, all he can do is cry,
          And quietly ask the silent Lord: ‘Why?’

Heaven

From a very young age, we have been told
That the streets of Heaven are paved with gold.
Who doesn't think about those pearly gates,
Which we pass through after we meet our fate?
The popular thought of old Saint Peter
Acting as Heaven's official greeter.
Gold halos, harps, and a pair of white wings....
Just a few of Heaven's most thought of things...

I guess I'm not much for the popular theme:
The 'floating-through-the-sky-on-a-cloud' dream.

When I think of heaven, I think of oak trees,
And leaves rustling in a soft blown breeze.
A babbling creek out behind the farm,
The smell of fresh baled hay stacked in the barn...
Even the smell of a freshly cut lawn.
Radio playing an old country song,
A cooler of beer in the bed of a truck,
Parked under the stars, and pressing my luck...
A stack of large logs, eleven feet high:
A bonfire to light up the night sky.

The sound of corn stalks stirring in the wind,
Racing to the river, and jumping in.
Relaxing all day, and fishing all night,
Laughing with friends in the campfire's light...

A bright sunny day playing with my kids,
Watching bubbles float away on the wind.
Kicking a ball, or going down a slide,
Playing a horse, and giving them rides.
Spending a fun-filled day up at the dunes,
Splashing around until we look like prunes...
Seeing them smile as they fly their kites...
Tucking them in, and kissing them goodnight...

I think these things when I think paradise...
A Hoosier - like heaven... THAT would be nice...

Hoosier Mornings

In the subtle hours just before dawn

When stars are fading, and the moon is gone,

I slip outside with a cup of fresh Joe.

Taking a sip as the black sky turns pink,

Listening to birds as they start to sing,

Staring across the field filled with corn rows.

Stalks rustle softly in the morning breeze

In perfect harmony with my oak trees.

The rooster's crow fades to the buzz of bees.

My cat jumps on my lap, and starts to purr...

For all of life's ills, this is the best cure:

Hearing a Hoosier morning symphony.