Ancient Friends (Poem)

Ancient Friends

I hear upon aging winds,
The call of ancient friends,
A familiar flutter of the heart,
The pull from being been apart,
Somewhat like being homesick,
Long after it hits you like a brick,
Everyone gets that need or urge,
Like a thunderbolt or electrical surge,
We all need friendship and love,
The folks who fit us like a glove,
Friends are THE crown jewels of being,
And it’s them we look forward to seeing,

Advice Not Taken (Poem)

Advice Not Taken

It is said you can lead a horse
To water but you can’t make it drink,

The same can be said about a friend,
You can give options, but you can’t pen the ink,

Their actions are ultimately their own
And that’s the frustrating part of it all,

From the outside, we can see the danger
And warn them, but only they can heed the call,

We must support them and trust
That what they do will be what’s best,

And yet because we care what happens
There will be no comfort nor any rest,

For our friends are who they are,
And we’re simply an ear or a guiding star.

Chatless Room (Poem)

Chatless Room

What once was busy with banter and chatter,
Is now quiet enough to hear rain patter,
Laughter and good conversations were the norm,
A place to shoot the breeze and brainstorm,
Where sarcasm and teasing bordered on violent,
Yet somehow, we’ve all become eerily silent,
Why did all the interactions slow and sputter?
It’s almost as if the chat room is ready to shutter,
Offline we’re ordinary humans just trying to survive,
Online we’re a collection of avatars on a cloud hard drive,
Over time the avatars become something more,
And those conversations touch us to the core,
Each of those internet strangers becomes a friend,
And for that reason, I hope the chat room doesn’t end,
Yet I cannot deny the lack of chatter these days,
I truly hope this isn’t the start of parting ways,

A Call for Ideas (Poem)

A Call for Ideas

I felt it best not to say a word,
Though a response bubbled and stirred,
A writing friend declared her creative well was dry,
All I could do is shake my head and sigh,
To her friends for ideas she made the call,
The response was good wishes but volume small,
I pondered replying, but of it, I thought better,
For surely if I had, it would be a scathing letter,
The fact is she’s a writer who doesn’t write,
For that reason, I have no pity for her plight,
She might occasionally journal here and there,
But her productivity is at best threadbare,
As a friend I know I shouldn’t rant,
But her writing outside journaling is frankly scant,
What reason is there for her muse to show?
When not writing is her status quo?
She proclaims that writing is important to her,
Yet her actions show she’s more like a poseur,
Bitching about a friend is a bit uncouth,
But my goodness, it’s the truth!
One day she’ll find her way back to paper and ink,
But right now, I’m not sure what to think,
Clearly, her call for ideas made me upset,
But silence is better than words I’d regret.

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