Words by Soberflight

poetry and musings



My life has become a series of rooms
That I enter and visit awhile,
And remembering each can make me feel sad
Or sometimes can bring me a smile.

Though sometimes the doors can open again,
Some of them bear a big lock,
Some of the keys are my memories,
Some of them ruled by the clock.

Can I still climb a tree? I probably can,
I just have to find the right one
With branches in reach, not too far apart…
Hey, that’s sounding like fun!

But can I return to what I once was
As a child or even a teen?
No, time rushes on, in fact I don’t want
To be what I sometimes have been.

Doors open up, some of them close,
Before I can spend enough time
To see if the room will hold something bad
Or something good or sublime.

The room I’m in now holds promise for me,
Changes and chances to take.
It’s all a matter of trusting that God
Will show me which door I should take.

A Day in Tune


A Day in Tune

And the morning came on like a song,
Somewhat sad, but not a dirge,
With cloudy skies, not quite the blues
But almost on the verge.

My mind sang along with that soft silent tune,
And I felt in harmony with it today.
For once, gray skies didn’t depress me,
And they often will affect me that way.

The song is not over, the day is not done,
And the mood is still staying with me.
So I’ll enjoy the music of life,
That’s how I think it should be.


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.

The Crow

The Crow

 How graceful the crow
Soars over my home.
How wondrous! He’s free
To wander and roam.

Every bit as striking
As an eagle in flight,
High on the updrafts,
This bird dark as night.

But unlike the eagle
Not symbol is he,
He’s merely a thief
Who steals corn from me.

He trills no songs
Like a wren in the marsh,
His voice can be haughty,
Callous and harsh.

As long as he soars
Up there in the skies
I’ll admire from a distance
And watch as he flies. 





The statuette behind the glass
Is of a couple who’s grown old,
You can tell their love is something
That never can turn cold.

The woman’s eyes are focused
On his face, and he looks back.
My love and I both said, “That’s us!”
Even though they’re black.

I wasn’t going to buy it,
It’d be just more to clean,
But it seemed to speak to us
Like none we’d ever seen.

Her hand touches gently,
Cupping at his chin,
Her other hand rests on his,
She’s plump and he is thin.

She’s an Aunt Jemima,
White hair escapes her scarf,
He’s an Uncle Tom,
And they share a secret laugh.

The look they give each other
Is tender, deep, and real;
My love and I saw only that
For that is how we feel.

So I bought a new display  case
And I bought the figurines,
I had to buy them just because
That’s what our love means.

View from the Back of a Motorcycle


Snow peeked out from behind the trees
Like wood sprites playing games.
I looked at the mountains all around
And tried to remember their names.

Washington was the easiest one
For it towered over them all,
The rest of them were harder.
A lot I couldn’t recall.

Chicorua, with its boney top,
Was reflected in its lake.
Both are old and deserving
Of their Indian namesake.

Franconia and Lafayette,
Garfield and Lincoln, too,
Supervised our journey
As we made our slow way through.

When I was younger I would hike
With sleeping bag and tent
The trails of those big mountains,
My summers were well-spent.


Just a few lonely notes on a piano,
A few chords to fill out a tune,
A little electronic drumbeat
And music fills up the room.

One note leads to another,
And you can’t help but sing right along,
Music can be so contagious
You feel taken over by song.

Long after the echoes have faded
And the keyboard is silent once more,
The music still rings in my memory
And causes my spirit to soar.


TBT pic026 (930x1280)

I’m dancing,
Can you hear the music?
Can you feel the rhythm
In my heart?
My feet are light,
They step staccato
To a rapid beat,
When I get old
And my body fails
The music will still play,
And my eyes will still dance



I feel poor, sometimes,
Yet I know
Wealth is more
Than good cash flow.

It’s not a car, or a
Vacation trip,
A summer home
Or sailing ship.

It’s not even
The meal I’ll eat
While some are starving
On the street.

It’s friends and kin,
God’s love and grace,
The smile on a child’s
Glowing face,

A summer sunrise,
A winter moon,
The haunting call
Of a lonely loon,

Yes, I’m wealthy,
I have a lot….
I am grateful
For what I’ve got.

Facing Fear


I feel I’m standing on the edge
Of some high precipice,
And it’s too dark to see
The bottom of this mess.

God calls for me to step
And find the ladder there,
But I’m afraid my foot
Will only find mid-air.

But at last I do
Take a timid try,
And instead of falling
I spread my wings and fly!