"Nothing But the Truth!"

I raised my right hand and said,

“I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth,

And nothing but the truth,”

The bailiff stopped me, I had just begun,

“We don’t do that anymore, son,

There’s no need to plant that seed,

We try to assume no one lies in truth or deed,

“Then why are we here?” my voice loud and strong,

Isn’t somebody being tried because he did wrong?”

“Contempt of court!” the judge roared my way,

“Lock him up, for a week and a day,

He’s prejudiced this trial, I’ll tell you why,

We wanted to find out who would lie,”

I should have been quiet, like I usually do,

I didn’t realize just what havoc would ensue,

“Judge, I have the answer, I surely do,

Anyone who moves their lips, is lying too,”

His face was distorted, he mopped his face,

“I don’t think you have a clue about this place,”

He rolled his narrowed eyes before he said,

“I wish I was a king and I’d say off with his head,”

Instead he sentenced me to a day and a year,

My lawyer explained until the message was clear,

“Justice is blind, and the law is ruthless,

We challenge each person as if he were truthless,”

“See this coffee cup?” He pointed to the one in his hand,

“I’m going to ask you questions until you understand,

Answer the questions truthfully, and do your best,

When I am finished, there will be a short test,”

He chuckled gleefully, “This is as easy as falling off a log,

I’ll lead you to the conclusion this cup is a frog,”

“But what about the truth?” I asked with some doubt,

“Forget the truth,” he snapped, “we want all the facts out!

We want evidence, arguments, burdens of proof,

When it’s all verified we’ll come out with some truth,”

I shook my head, “If a liar tells the truth, will someone believe?

Or if someone normally honest lies, will you know he deceives?

Is truth a mixture of reality and imagination, a poet’s dream?

Or is truth stranger than fiction, just as it seems?”

The lawyer scratched his head and started to grin,

“If you were a lawyer, I think you might win,

Lying for a good reason, twisting truth on a case,

If you stretch the facts a little, you’ll build a good base,

If you lead people to a conclusion with your evidence,

You’ll win most of your cases if the juries you convince.”

He patted me on the back and looked me in the eye,

“You should know the truth, when you’re released by and by.

The truth must be outdated,

At least it’s considered overrated,

However you can get by,

Whether you steal, cheat, or lie,

If you can get away with it,

Don’t let it bother you one bit,

                                   

When I was just a child,

Perhaps I was just a bit wild,

But Dad took me aside and said,

“This could probably be left unsaid,

But just so you can sleep at night,

Learn to treat folks just right,

Be honest when you give your word,

So they don’t have to guess what they heard,

And if you shake hands to seal a deal,

Remind yourself your word is real,”

Through the years I’ve stayed on track,

And I don’t see a reason for turning back,

I found it true I could sleep at night,

Just because I did things right.

(Part one)

The Poem Not Written

My poetry is a time of curiosity, of smiles,

And childlike satisfaction of using guile,

It is a gift, a talent, imagined or real,

That lets my heart express how I feel,

It shapes itself from thought to pen,

And stirs my soul to write again,

My muse is often witty when she has her say,

Mediocre poems are due to her really bad day,

They may be laden with imagery and flow,

Or fall flat on their faces with little to show,

But the worst poem of all is the poem not written,

It waits swollen with promise, as if snake bitten,

Stares forlornly as other poems strut their stuff,

And never ventures out, it’s not good enough,

Nor does it climb into one of my dreams,

Pestering to be written as a beautiful theme,

The poem not written gets left behind,

Forever out of sight, and finally out of mind.

Small Simple Things With Love

Small Simple Things With Love (One Poet’s Legacy)

Because I am a poet,

I am wiser than I think,

I see the world with clarity,

Able to mix fantasy with reality,

Discovering beauty wherever I look,

Or find ugliness and mayhem out my door,

I can’t ignore the world and waste my life,

I try to create order out of chaos,

And do small simple things with love,

Because I am aware of life and death,

And within the parameters of my time,

I am working on my legacy,

For a poet leaves more than leaves of grass,

For life’s deepest meaning is in relationships,

For all the experience I learned,

Loves once had, so foolish spent,

Were ground powder fine as the world turned,

But my world is much bigger than loves lost,

My fingerprints have left indelible marks,

Doing a thousand small simple things with love,

Comforting those left standing alone,

Who shed great tears of pain,

Encouraging those who lacked hope,

Lifting their spirits from the depths,

Urging those who needed words of action,

Doing something that would make someone’s life better,

Small simple things with love,

My footprints also linger on,

For I’ve walked carefully throughout life,

Stepping forward in truth and purpose,

Walking tall and unafraid to face the world,

Leaving footprints, I’m sure,

Yet unseen by me if I turn and look,

So I go trudging on,

My words heartfelt and true,

Knowing that my words are powerful,

Solving problems, gathering information,

Abstract thinking, concrete thinking,

Words that have the power of life and death,

Should be words of love and peace,

Kind words, affirming words, a chance to show mercy,

I am a poet and I share my essence,

My heart is open and in my dreams,

I leap barriers that block love’s capricious whim,

I do not want to keep love’s fire without,

It has to burn within,

I am vulnerable to the world,

And my dreams are of love and peace,

Each footprint, each fingerprint, that I leave,

Will be small simple things with love,

For I am a poet.

One Lonely Rose

One Lonely Rose

One lonely rose greeted me,

I didn’t know why she left our home,

Beneath my window this morn,

It was not logical to be in the world alone,

She tugged her petals closer,

She always forgot to bring her coat and mitts,

While shivering in the storm,

If she needed warmth she wouldn’t admit it,

Her head drooped slightly,

I could tell she was tired and ill,

As she leaned into the rain,

I knew she struggled paying bills,

Against the winds, the mighty winds,

But she had to prove she had the will,

She was determined to remain,

She made it clear I was unneeded still,

Expecting the worst when all had ceased,

Surely after months my love she would lack,

I hesitated before I glanced outside,

Her world must be out of whack!

The delicate rose remained there still,

She did not want me to bring her back,

Bursting with fragrant pride,

Her pride will be her downfall,

I admired her courage as she stood alone,

She had heard freedom’s call,

Smiling as she stood sentinel tall,

She had no intention of giving in, none at all,

Knowing the other roses were gone,

Even to lose love she chose not to bend,

She waited bravely to face the first snowfall.

She would be independent until the end.

Sometimes in poetry the story is between the lines.