Nothing left of me but a little of my ass for everyone to chew on
Cut here, too edgy Snip there, too mouthy Ripped off the parts that made you uncomfortable Drag them all behind me now in a little red wagon of damaged esteem Reached a point there was little left of me, I was like an old wadded up napkin, tumbling across a parking lot The last pathetic shreds heading toward an old wino looking to blow his nose All that made me, gone All I ever wanted to be, denied The best of who I was piled high in my little wagon Nothing left of me but a little of my ass…
I hope God had a good night
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling
Lost in the haze between sleep and a new day
Wiggle my toes
Scratch my crotch
Sigh deeply,
snuggle deeper into the warm blankets
Have to celebrate this still alive thing
Glad when God went to bed, He didn’t
spit on my candle
Creakingly roll over the side of the bed
Do the old man shuffle to the toilet
I defiantly stare into the mirror
Still a face there I recognize
Always good to check at this age
There will be a day when my mirror is empty, the breathe of God…
The universe has had its way with me, but I have been forgiven
I am three glasses into a bottle of iced Chardonnay, sitting alone on a Sunday afternoon, watching feathery clouds being torn apart by the mountain peaks on the horizon. Proud, impossibly white billowing beauties sailing along on a brilliant sun day, but flying too low, then shredded by an immovable object which has stood there since God started the clock. Many of the days of my life have ended up on those sharp peaks. Arrogance, indifference, indecision, all weighted my ass down at times leaving me unable to rise above the weakness within, bringing the inevitable correction, that moment when…
A salute to he who was me
Who I was I am no more Older now, but an other Who I was, now gone Who I will be, not yet born The mistakes of he, who was me, do not matter to the me that was him That one died years ago All he left me, was me, and me is enough I don’t hold him responsible for those days Oh, but did we tear up those years But how could he, so young, know that who he was then, was so wrong I am now me, and I like this me, but still finding me after…
Writers have one dream, to write words living beyond our death
We writers are a strange bunch of rotten bananas
Without our words you would never know we are here
Those quiet ones at the party sipping wine
alone in the corner writing a few lines in a worn-out notebook
avoided by the loud and the lively…
because who wants to talk about dead poets
Socially inept but morally superior is our mantra If they only knew us, we mumble, talking to our cats Where is the writer tonight our few friends ask Home again curled up with her dog in her lap sitting at an old desk in her sweatpants…
My failures have given me the strength to be who I am today
You will fail in life. Failure is in all of us; it is the proof we are alive and still human. Even the most arrogant of us, the ones who claim perfection, will find themselves sitting in the dark late at night, alone, finally understanding failure is just as much a part of life as breathing. Failure is a brief snapshot in time of who you are today, but has nothing to do with who you will be tomorrow. Failure is the shaping of your soul, a test of your willingness to accept the knowledge of who you are…and who…
I became lost to a tomorrow of darkness and uncertainty
I dream of what I cannot have
The touch of my hand on my mother’s cheek
The laughter of my father telling his own jokes
The innocence of youth when I believed they would live forever
Days when I was certain of a future I alone could create
Impatient to make the world dance to my music
My hours then were mine to waste in mindless passions of the soul
Endless tomorrows were my gift from a universe that loved me
Aging is understanding there is always a last time for everything The last goodbye, last kiss, a last I…
The music ends for many who lose the faith of themselves
The songs of my soul are my own
I dance alone to notes written just for me
My life a tribute to the path only I see
The days a reflection of a journey I was meant to live
I wasted much of my early life singing the song of others
Denying a direction already branded into my soul
We are born to live our own lives moving to our own rhythms
If only we take the time to hear the music meant for us
I was born the day I tuned out the others who wanted my life My…
The young and the strong always become the old and the weak
She was angry the moment she walked into the room I had not seen in twenty years but she started where we left off still accusing the world of stealing her life I never got a break never had the luck you always had she said She had been beautiful Her body something men stole glances at when they were with their women A fullness other women admired yet hated She had owned any room she walked into back in her day Eyes admiring a tribute to eternal youth Then it all disappeared Her beauty had been her survival She…
Thomas Plummer
A simple life dedicated to leaving the world a little better than I found it. Long career in the business of fitness, writer of books, speaker, personal coach.
