Heaven vs Hell

A breath away from heaven, yet a spark away from hell.
I titter on a tightrope of thoughts and deeds that foretell
My future in this life, but may well sacrifice the other…
Unless I’m strong enough to believe there is another.

One day it seems that reams of problems aren’t worth my time;
Then another sunrise bestows fortunes far beyond sublime.
Can it be that there is a spirit that represents all that is good,
And a countervailing force deterring the course of what I should?

Now rules of the game seem to reward only those able to win.
No thought is given to whether their ways are moral, right... or a sin.
For them hell is only a possibility from an economic point of view;
Until they possess all the wealth, that’s the heaven they’ll pursue.

For such individuals heaven and hell can be closer than ever before;
Sadly, addiction to false heavenly riches turn them into hell’s whores.
As I titter on life’s tightrope, both heaven and hell seem oh so near.
Deeds of love and not needs for wealth mean I have nothing to fear.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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Hour Glass

As grains start to fall, everything is new.
Nothing is known about what to do.
As the pile of grains continues to grow,
It seems easier to know which way to go.

When grains approach a quarter of the way,
Things appear less black and white versus an earlier day.
But the world is exciting and there’s plenty of time.
Any thoughts of the hour glass give way to the sublime.

Pleasure, money, power and love battle for share,
While the grains at the top become increasingly rare.
At half way flowing grains take on a resounding force,
Though few pay attention as they race on their course.

Mental and physical factors band together as reminders,
But many still prefer to continue using their blinders.
As the grains accumulate to their three quarters state,
The niave and unprepared are in for a sad, brutal fate.

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poem by Gregory Huyette
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Golf From Hell

THE DEVIL INVENTED THIS IMPOSSIBLE SPORT.
WORSE THAN HELLFIRE, IT’S YOUR LAST RESORT.
SO MANY HAVE TRIED; SO MANY HAVE CRIED.
IN THOSE HAZZARDS SO MANY HAVE DIED.

WHAT A PLEASURE TO PLAY WITH A SCRATCH HANDICAPPER.
MAKES YOU WANT TO THROW YOUR STICKS IN THE CRAPPER.
HE SAYS IT’S JUST EYE-HAND COORDINATION.
HE’S NEVER SUFFERED FROM TWO-FOOT PUTT CONSTIPATION.

HE SAYS IT’S JUST A MATTER OF SHIFTING YOUR WEIGHT.
AS FOR ANYMORE SHIFTING, IT’S NOW TOO LATE.
AND WHAT’S THAT DEAL ABOUT A FULL SHOULDER TURN?
WHEN I TIE MY SHOES, THEY ALREADY BURN.

WORST OF ALL IS HIS SMOOTH, SLOW BACKSWING.
IF I TRIED THAT, I WOULDN’T MOVE ANYTHING.
HE SAYS TIMING GIVES HIM ADDED TORK.
I SAY MY TIMING HELPS ME PLAY LIKE A DORK.

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poem by Gregory Huyette
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Pearl, Merle And Earl And Sex

Every few days Earl tries to remember what sex used to be.
So he asks his girlfriends, “Is these thoughts sinful or weird of me? ”
Blushing Peal responds, “Why are all men so crass and crude? ”
Merle chimes in “Well Pearl, I like men who put me in the mood.”
Pearl recoils, “How can you treat it with so little dignity? ”
Merle jokes, “Using “it” for the word “sex” is an 'old' way to be.”
Listening to these ladies poor Earl becomes increasingly confused.
Are these thoughts a good thing or should they be refused?
Pearl says, “Merle, to keep your mind clean I suggest you pray.”
Earl retorts, “Pearl, I don’t want thoughts of sex to go away.”
Merle pipes in, “Pearl, just remember the way we all got here.
Folks have been doing “it”, I mean having sex, for many a year.”
Earl, why don’t you hustle those 70 year olds at other tables.
Sitting at one there’s an Olga, Margarite and at least two Mables.
White as her name sake, Pearl sat fingering her worry beads,
Hoping no 100+ year olds will bother her with their awful needs.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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Fear

Fear keeps me here because I want to be.
It tells me of the dangers that I want to see.
It says that stop is better than go.
It warns me against what I don’t know.

Fear soothes me and makes me feel
That the risks and pitfalls are really real.
It tells me I’ll be hurt if I try something new.
Like sunglasses it helps taint my life’s view.

My stultifying friend, fear, and I
Sit on the sidelines, as the world passes by.
Then it dawns on me that fear’s not my friend.
It’s only interested in its own cruel end
Ends like “don’t, ” “can’t, ” and “won’t work.”
Negatives like “too risky, ” “forget it, ” and “shirk.”

Fear has been the driver; I’ve just been in the car.
Unless I’m master of the pedal, I won’t go far.
So I leave fear at the gate since I know I’m the best.

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poem by Gregory Huyette
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The Happy Sadness of Golf

It’s not a sport or pastime … and usually not fun.
You’re reduced to a mumbler before you are done.
The book says to hit against your left side.
Seems like hitting the ball is what should be tried.

Then there’s that bit about not moving your head.
That’ll be no problem … as soon as you’re dead.
Down and behind the ball is what they say.
Just more of the same … your game’s going that way.

And what’s the deal about a full shoulder turn?
One try and it’s wheelchair racing to learn.
And be sure your follow-through finishes high.
No matter your shot’s an unplayable lie.

Or maybe your release wasn’t just right.
Keep the faith, hacker, the nineteenth’s in sight.
Then they wreck the course with water and rough.
Just making small holes is rotten enough.

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poem by Gregory Huyette
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My Mother and My Cancer

My mother always told me that without health, you have naught.
Now I find myself in a place I’m truly caught.
Cancer ate one of my kidneys and my bladder’s a sorry sight.
Expert doctors are working hard, but disagreeing what is right.

The one who sliced me open did a great job cutting out the cancer.
But as for the matter of my inflamed bladder, she really has no answer.
She suspected an infection and a urine specimen proved it was so;
Confusing since a specimen to the other doctor had resulted in a “no.”

All I know for sure is that the sewed up incision is not what hurts.
I’m suffering from what has attacked my bladder with the pressure it exerts.
As I sit down my lower body screams for help with what’s the matter.
My prostate cancer has been usurped by first kidney and now bladder.

Dear mother I have spared you the knowledge of my trauma.
You’ve had enough; you’ve had it tough in your 91 years of being mama.
Just know that your first born is enjoying a life in the style you taught.
Love is the way and each day is a gift; life’s jewels that can never be bought.

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poem by Gregory Huyette
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This Fabulous Place

As I peer at the moon and revel at each star,
It’s as if night’s ceiling really isn’t that far.
My mind floats like a comet through unending space.
The haunting heavens are mine in this fabulous place.

Back here on earth many smiling people abound.
Like bees in a hive they busily scatter around.
They enliven this world with their unending pace.
Friends and acquaintances are close in this fabulous place.

Not long ago each country was a world of its own.
Now distant corners yield mysteries to a mere telephone.
Unknowns spring from sources that once hadn’t a trace,
But now have become indispensables in this fabulous place.

Trees reach to the sky as flowers follow the sun.
Flora and fauna provide seasonal splendor for everyone.
The fortunes of nature paint an inspiring face,
Enchantingly molding rock and soil in this fabulous place.

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poem by Gregory Huyette
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Hate

Hate seems to work better than love these days
As the world takes advantage of its malicious ways.
And good place to focus hate’s vengeful gaze
Is on those horrible, contemptible highways.

Flying fingers, giant trucks and souped up cars
Rule ranting raceways like a marauding czars.
These bullies are masters with their horsepower endurance
While the meek grovel with their no fault insurance.

Entering home’s driveway, hate attacks family members.
After its ravages, there’ll only be whimpering embers.
Insults, mistrust and deceit are hate’s infamous creations,
Though most daunting of all is its destroyed communications.

Now that the family is left with remnants of love’s splatters,
It’s off to the office where it’s lust and money that matters.
This corporate world is perfect for hate’s cultivation.
Its sole purpose is making more money…oh the devil’s creation!

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poem by Gregory Huyette
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My Favorite Colors

Blue is my favorite color drawn from the seas and skies.
It beautifies my mother’s and two of my daughter’s eyes.
It also imbues the flag of my country where freedom is dear.
That’s why when I feel blue, I know happiness must be near.

Red is a close second and I’ll always remember why.
As a child I loved fire engines and the Monarch butterfly.
For me the lovely, regal rose created this exquisite color.
Many shades exist, but it’s hard to focus on any other.

Yellow is another color that has always caught my eye.
It explodes from the morning sun; then paints the sunset sky.
I wonder if, in fact, my favorite color might be yellow.
It reminds me of all that is good, positive and mellow.

Green, the color of life, emboldens the countryside.
Eyes of another daughter sparkle this color far and wide.
Though the color of money, it’s more important for me
That it signifies “proceed” toward opportunity.

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poem by Gregory Huyette
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