Words by Soberflight

poetry and musings

Category: Uncategorized

Laughter(prompt by Cubby)

You laughed the stars

Into the sky,

Then took them away

And made me cry.


You laughed the blue

Into the sea,

Then gave the very sun

To me.


You laughed the love

Into my heart,

And then I knew

We’d never part.

Hero (Prompt by Cubby)

A hero is born, not from the laurels of glory,

But from his own righteous heart.

Accolades are not what spur him on,

And fear may slow his start.


To right a wrong or promote a cause,

His sword may be his words or deeds,

For a hero wields, despite his fear,

Whatever weapon he needs.


Though laurels bestowed, and accolades,

It’s not what a hero would seek;

He  tries to defend, put right and amend,

In a manner both righteous and meek.







Hanging On (Riff to Cubby’s “Moving On”)

Sorrow, so hard to leave behind
When it’s imbedded in my mind.
It hides there, in disguise,
Somewhere deep behind my eyes.

Though I choose to not dwell,
And leave behind my private hell,
It follows me as if tied
By all the tears that now have dried


If I had the power of creation

Strength borrowed from the blazing sun,

I’d start the world over again,

Life as it had begun.


I’d try to remove the one small thing

That eventually brought us to ruin,

And that, I believe, is egotistical pride

In ourselves and what we’ve been doing.


I know God’s plan was better than this,

Eden was  a beautiful place.

I almost think His one mistake

Was creating the whole human race.

Dreams(prompt by Cubby)

What He Built

What He Built

There was a beautiful home

Where an empty lot now stands.

A family used to live there,

But it’s passed through many hands.

A father built it for his children

With sweat and nails and board,

With occasionally an addition,

Just what he could afford.

Years later, late one summer,

With his children by his side,

In his own home and his own bed,

That loving father died.

He’d kept the roof in good repair

To keep his family dry,

But when his children saw it recently

All they did was cry.

The last owner thought it better

To just let it sit and rot,

It fell to time and weather,

Now it’s just an empty lot.

But after all it was nail and board,

The children shouldn’t’ve cried,

For the better thing their father built

They all held deep inside.

Dreams (prompt by Cubby)

Dreams like water-coloured paintings
Wash away when days are raining

Puddle at the base of my brain,
Diluted in the acid rain.

I watch as heavy skies are greying,
Try to capture thoughts gone straying,
But, like fish, they swim away
And join their brethren in the bay.

Fall Walk

I went walking yesterday,

Allowing whim to lead the way,

Stepping out in falling leaves

That framed the sky, so blue that day.


The wind was grabbing at the trees

To tear their colors, fling them wide,

And strip the naked branches bare…

Or, at least, it cruelly tried.


I smelled the warmth of sun-warmed ground

‘Neath a carpet of leaf and pine.

I touched the sun’s face with my fingers.

And in return, it touched mine.


I lost myself in deep reflection

Of how blessed I felt I was

To live and breathe this warm October

That God has given, as He does.


Fairy Tale

Image result for image of old woman or young woman

Her hands, unsteady, drew the lines

That sculpted lips of red.

Her eyes still saw her image smile

From the poster above her bed.


Her face, once smooth and pink with youth,

Was wrinkled, pale, and drawn

From years of pain-filled, sleepless nights

That tediously crept along.


Her eyes, now rheumy, had been clear

And saw a different life

That left no time for motherhood

Or the duties of a wife.


Oh, she’d been free to live the way

Many girls had dreamed,

Dancing, drinking, money flowed….

Nothing as it seemed.


She had been so elegant,

Long legs and waspish waist,

And men had fallen at her feet

Just begging for a taste.


Now, alone, her footsteps were

A solitary drone,

Tapping on her apartment floor

Or clicking on the stone.


Her vermilion lips, somewhat awry,

Cocked in rueful smile.

She’d had it all, and lost it all,

But, God, she still had style.



My eyes grow heavy at the keyboard, here.

Outside the window the sky is drear.

I wait for my charge, net-surfing near,

And all I want is some sleep, today.

I write through no sparked imagination,

No helpful muse, no fascination.

Boredom is my inspiration,

Keeping impatience at bay.

A lifetime of factory work has drained

Someone once considered right-brained,

Rhyming and meter comes out strained,

As my attention starts to stray.