A Poet's Work

A poet's work is a mystery indeed.
It springs from his mind like a fertile seed.
It's not his place to question its emergence,
But to record and marvel at its resurgence.

Each word, phrase, sentence is predisposed
Like a babe that is born already composed.
It's mission to convey ideas and messages clear
With style and flair never before existing here.

When a poet views release of his finished piece,
Best enjoy as an observer or emotions increase.
How each work is born, like the child at birth
Is shrouded in mystery as is so much on earth.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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Issues

For all, issues arise every day in every shape and size.

You must deal with all of them in ways that are wise.

For some you are glad while others make you mad.

Lucky for you, but a few, are in themselves, truly sad.

Worst of all are issues that you alone cause to be bad.

Before your presence there was no problem to be had.

Love, family and health are key issues of each day,

Though issues of money and power hinder your way.

[...] Read more

poem by Gregory Huyette
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An Apology for Technology

Technology can become very mean
By robbing the "I" with a machine.
Whether "I" Phone, "I" Tune or "I" Pad
The result can be magnanimously bad!
If you let the computer assume the rule,
You'll lose contacts and become the tool.

The box will wake you, remind you or find you;
It can help you calculate and recreate too.
Ah yes, technology can be a valuable assist,
But it's with real people that success will exist.
So don't become a slave to that little screen.
Each person can be a client… not the machine.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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Technology's Downside

Technology can become very mean
By robbing the "I" with a machine.
Whether "I" Phone, "I" Tune or "I" Pad
The result can be magnanimously bad!
If you let the computer assume the rule,
You'll lose contacts and become the tool.

The box will wake you, remind you or find you;
It can help you calculate and recreate too.
Ah yes, technology can be a valuable assist,
But it's with real people that happiness will exist.
So don't become a slave to that little screen.
Each person should be the user not the machine.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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Traders

Trundling taut, twinged and tattered,
Smudged, sanguine, sad and spattered,
Still hope of millions mattered
More than bloody body battered;
In spite of spirits sorely scattered…
Leaving net worth notions shattered.

Instant wealth appeared on paper,
But like cruel water vapor
Disappeared leaving a hell
Of felled and falling screaming “sell”.

Sadly some short sighted seekers
Again augmented awful leekers,
Buying back their badly botched;
Lauding losers when one notched
Levels below lingering faders…
Think not, wait not, tainted traders!

poem by Gregory Huyette
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Passing Through

Wet blades in the shade of an old house
Scatter as a mouse shatters the dew,
On this morning as i pass through.

A city asleep beneath a deep eastern ray
Is herlded from slumber by a trumpeting jay,
Who christens the day anew,
On this morning as i pass through.

Golden hair and a rare trace of green
Can be seen, transfigured in the treetops
By autumn’s brush as a thrush scampers from view,
On this morning as i pass through.

Dawn’s drowsiness is shaken as a baby awakens
To the city’s soft ceiling of blue,
On this morning as i pass through.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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The Work Of A Poet

A poet’s work is a mystery indeed.
It springs from his mind like a fertile seed.
It’s not his place to question its emergence,
But to record and marvel at its resurgence.

Each word, phrase, sentence is predisposed
Like a babe that is born already composed.
It’s mission to convey ideas and messages clear
With style and flair never before existing here.

When a poet views release of his finished piece,
Best enjoy as an observer or emotions increase.
How each work is born, like the child at birth
Is shrouded in mystery as is so much on earth.

poem by Gregory Huyette
Added by Poetry Lover
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Golden Yellow Tree

Glittering golds and yielding yellows
Mary together in Michangelo like pillows.
Announcing radiance with whiffs of breeze
In cadence commanding attention with ease.

Perfect plumage in unending motion
Paint the sea blue sky with a yellow gold lotion.
Its limbs spread beauty as they wave to all.
Earth would be so much less without its rustling call.

Evening rays set masses of leafy fingers ablaze
Like exploding fireworks to celebrate the days.
The setting sun softly swaddles each branch good night
Knowing that its comeliness will soon fade from sight.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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I Understand How You Feel

I understand how you feel.
Your frustrations are justified.
Your complaints are very real,
And you want them satisfied.

Please let me listen to your concern.
That way the problem can be solved
So that everyone involved will learn
How it might be smoothly resolved.

My goal is your satisfaction.
That’s the only reason I’m here.
My job is to eliminate any distraction
Not cause you additional fear.

I understand how you feel.
Conditions are difficult for everyone.
I’m successful if you think my help is real,
And your new adventure has just begun!

poem by Gregory Huyette
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Tic Toc, a Clock

No chance to wait; can’t hesitate.
Turning to the sixty for a breath, then death.
Turning three score once more and more…
This face ranges with changes to after from before.

It knows no man, but again spins faster and faster,
Having no master in joy or disaster.
Its needles point and anoint each moment with the past.
And as fast its joints are turning ever to the right
In spite of a world yearning, burning for a pause in its flight.

This face rushing to its cause will never be bound
As it paces, yet races with the sound, tic toc, a clock

poem by Gregory Huyette
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