Dad Never Taught Me
Dad never taught me how to curse
And he never told us to gamble
He always warned cigarettes are worst
And never to waste food on the table.
Dad never taught us how to be idle
He was always a hardworking man at best
Taught us how to be responsible
And to face with Courage every test.
My Dad was not perfect but he taught well
I think that's the best he could leave
The lesson in life that really spell
How truly successful is a life well lived.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Gold
The time to say the words of love
Are brief and fleeting moments.
Passing days will need to prove
Sincerity of the sentiments.
Frail emotions tend to flee
Out of the windows of a home,
When crucial trials come to be
Unwanted guests that come.
Like gold that passes through the fire
True love will pass the test of time,
For this is not just mere desire,
But a deeper bond for us...refined.
-
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Exposed
Amazing how words can expose
The heart of the half-man behind them
Revealing a destitute poet/beggar
Wallowing in famined decency, anger.
His words undress in Poverty of beauty
Nagging Profanity and lacking finesse!
Reading his posts invites our Pity
Ignorance and vile in obvious excess!
His profile revealed on all points bulletin
Beware of the bully that lurks within
Pretending to beg but attacks again
Such a mendicant fool enjoys evil Sin.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Intimidation
Getting shrunk like a shrinking violet
Too stiffened by a fearful Self
Lost opportunities she cannot get
She is one dusty jar on a shelf.
Secure in that musty four walls
Of her cabinet shelf she finds comfort
Unable to find her life purpose at all
Stifled her chances by low self-worth.
Intimidation is what keeps her fenced
Tapes her mouth shut she cannot speak
Deafens her ears, her mind is silenced
Success is something that she fails to seek.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Am I Lucky I Have You?
Am I lucky I have you?
Yes, you keep saying so,
Repetition doesn't make it true
And that is what I know.
I am worn out with your demands
That seem to pile up everyday
My view you just misunderstand
And you twist the words I say.
I have no time for games
Nor the natural inclination,
To play them kills the flame -
They are a waste of emotions.
Am I happy to have you?
I think the game is over
Goodbyes are overdue
And you... I won't remember.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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If Death Does Not Come
If death does not come from Terror
We may succumb eventually from fear
Or from stress due to stupid human error
(Whatever did we do to deserve this?)
All the intelligence is hilariously absent
Maxwell Smart could have done quite well!
Millions of scanners now present
Even your hemorrhoids they can tell.
If death does not come from Terror
Imagination can kill faster than man
The mind can produce visual horrors
In the meantime: 'Yes we scan! '
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Word Salad
Like veggie salad tossed here and there
Random words mix up good meaning
Spiced up musings everywhere
The taste of which is quite confusing.
So I looked and read classic poetry
Perchance there find some gourmet score
Hoping my diligence gets the recipe
For the word salad I am looking for.
Salads taste nice with a little dressing
And thrown about words may hit some cue
I guess I could never do salad writing
So I stick to rhyme in the poems I do.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Mirrors
I tell the life story
Of the lines in your face,
I have a good memory
Of the years with each gaze.
Unfolding old age
I will frankly disclose
Details of your image
As you look up close.
Bags under eyes,
Hair that is graying-
Years have gone by,
A truth I'm declaring.
Honest reflections
Boldly I will reveal,
I undress your emotions
And expose what you feel.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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In a Box
A closed mind cannot further taste
Enlightenment or validity of reason
Absence of will to accept negates
A slight hint of proof or explanation.
So leave such a man in his little box
His choice is respected and given free
Why try to even take the sharpest axe
When his soul has dried up like a tree?
There's a time and a season for that man
When the LORD does all His knocking
But even that has a set time to end
It could be too late when he's dying.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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No Right Words For the Dying
When my brother
Fifty-seven
Terminal with kidney C
Was dying slowly
All he asked-
'Just be with me.'
To a dying friend
No right words
Can convey
Comfort
For one facing the end
Cannot afford
To hear words...
That may
Distort.
Impossibilities
Erase all trace of Hope
His life is empty
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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