Applause

Applause

I’ve been here many times,
as their childhood has flown past

Sitting alone in the crowd
smiling, and having a blast
A proud, dedicated single parent
gathering memories that will last

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She weaves her way through a defense

that had previously refused to yield
Deft footwork and bursts of speed
guide her down the field
I spring from the edge of my seat
as a late victory is sealed

My legs, energized by her exploit
My lungs, filled with a rush of air
An abrupt acknowledgment of her endeavor
as I quickly rise up from my chair
Emphatic words in a father’s approval
ecstatic to be right there

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I see my teenage powerhouse
as she tumbles across the floor
A round-off and a back handspring
My gasp, and then a perfect two more
An exalted, frightening, wonderful feeling
that resonates to my core

My stomach, churning when she jumps
My heart, leaping when she lands
The uniquely exhilarating anguish
that any parent understands
Proud, as I put down the camera
to free up my hands

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The impetus for my applause
Feats that constantly astound
No urge to look beside me
No need to look around
My two hands, together in the crowd
making their own sound


It seems to me that it’s a graceful gazelle
that suddenly emerges from the pack
Anticipating the exact moment
from my spot along the track
As she glides around the final curve
the others get further and further back

My mind, racing with her to the finish
My senses, tingling from the start
The extent of her accomplishments
matching the size of her heart
Knowing the work ethic and the effort
that always set her apart

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Being early gets me a good seat
Dead center, given the chance
Oblivious of my surroundings
I listen to her play, I watch her dance
Happily lost, inside of myself
My own choice, my soul circumstance

My eyes, no matter what her stage
My ears, for any of the bands
The selfish, singular focus
that any parent understands
Proud, as I put the program down
to free up my hands

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The inspiration for my applause
Daughters who constantly astound
No urge to look beside me
No need to look around
My t
wo hands, together in the crowd
making their own sound


Sitting alone, in the crowd

as each new season has passed
Thankful for each new memory
as time ticks by so fast
Never wondering, or worrying,
if this one will be the last

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Solitary

Solitary
An enigma,
An illness,
A decision,
A hole.

Another question mark.
Another lost soul…

It’s hard to recognize someone
that no one knows
Difficult, to see,
what someone never shows
A lost face,
beneath a mask
A happier place,
inside a flask
A positive outlook,
an impossible task
So many questions,
you can’t find to ask

When a mind struggles, alone,
A brain storm, of their own
Swept up in in an instant
Where it’s dark and it’s distant
A solitary place,
they might go
Where every sky
must bring snow
Left with answers
that no one will know

It’s hard to comprehend something

that no one understands
Difficult, to grasp something,
when it’s out of your hands
A mystery,
wrapped up in a mind
A history
they drag behind
An act,
selfishly unkind
Too many reasons,
that are impossible to find

When a life ends, alone,

A sad choice, on their own
A final decision that’s made
When they are despondent or afraid
Solitary tears,
sliding down the drain
Cold and confounding,
like a January rain
Leaving little more,
than questions and pain

It’s hard to be sad

for someone who is gone
Difficult, now, for those
obliged to move on
An opened investigation
A closed case
A stark image,
they can’t replace
A terrible memory,
they can’t erase
A huge void,
with just a face

As I sit here, today, alone,

contemplating life, not just my own
I worry, about all that is to be,
What I may not understand, or see
The solitary angst,
my someones can’t bare
Changes in the seasons
When
there’s something in the air
The questions and answers,
we just have to share

I give my resolute vow…
I will be far more aware.
I will be here.
I will be there.

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Guns

          GUNS 

Justify them however you like,
  guns are made to kill.
 
   Made even more deadly
     in the hands of the vengeful,
       of the criminal, of the mentally ill.
         Guns will always find their way 
            into the hands of those who will.
              Inevitably, into the wrong hands, 
                  despite the latest greatest bill.
                     And always at the wrong time…
                        because guns are made to kill.

                           Those stubbornly blind say,
                             “Guns don’t kill. People do.”
  
                                 This weapon finds death.
                                    In the sights of the spiteful,
                                      of the careless, of the self-chosen few.
                                         It doesn’t matter what you say.
                                           It is mainly a matter of who.
                                             So open up your obstinate eyes.
                                               It could happen to yours, or you.
                                                  Guns alone may not shoot people…
                                                     but only people with guns do.

                                                         Defensive or offensive,
                                                            it is a scary slippery slope.

                                                              Guns are firmly entrenched
                                                                 in the arms of your nation,
                                                                   of law enforcement, of those who guard hope.
                                                                      Yet, for every group with the best intentions, 
                                                                         there is one more who can’t cope.
                                                                            Manufactured for a single purpose.
                                                                               Short-sighted, in every scope.
                                                                                  The hunter, or the hunted…
                                                                                     it’s a scary, slippery slope.

                                                                                         Guns are made to kill.
                                                                                            They will always find a way.
                                                                                              No matter what we do.
                                                                                                 No matter what you say.

A scary, slippery slope.

Guns

                     GUNS

Justify them however you like,
guns are made to kill.

Made even more deadly
in the hands of the vengeful,
of the criminal, of the mentally ill.
Guns will always find their way
into the hands of those who will.
Inevitably into the wrong hands
despite the latest, greatest bill.
And always at the wrong time
because guns are made to kill.


Those stubbornly blind say,
“Guns don’t kill. People do.”

This weapon finds death
in the sights of the spiteful,
of the careless, of the self-chosen few.
It doesn’t matter what you say,
it is mostly a matter of who.
So open up your obstinate eyes,
it could happen to yours, or you.
Guns alone may not shoot people,
but only people with guns do.


Defensive or offensive,

it is a scary slippery slope.

Guns are firmly entrenched
i
n the arms of your nation,
of law enforcement, of those who guard hope.
Yet for every one with the best intentions
there are three more who can’t cope.
Manufactured for a single purpose,
short-sighted, in every scope.
The hunter or the hunted,
It’s a scary slippery slope.


Guns are made to kill,
they will always find a way.
No matter what we do
no matter what you say.

It’s a
scary
slippery
slope.

                                                                                                            

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