Lucian Tower

Christmas 1997

I began writing Lyrics, short stories, and poetry some 43-years-ago. When I was in high school, during the 60s, I met the great Robert Frost. He spoke to me about my real elementary attempts at writing and poetry. He took some time with me, after assembly hall and told me to not stop writing. Now, …






Our loves...our gloves,
our pushes...our shoves,
what we believe...clouds above,
our boredom...those drugs to love.

Our cutting edge...our strife,
a power saw...our carpentry knife,
a bugle...a fife,
the Christ...our life?

Our beds...hats on our heads,
penciil leads...crackers and breads,
garages and sheds...toboggans and sleds,
old painful wounds...that always bled.

Our dogs...fireplace logs,
cloudy times...soupy fogs,
bourbon and cokes...eggnog ond ice cream floats,
DVDs and incense smoke...sweaters and thick coats.

Where do we look for God?

Our many wrongs...our favorite songs,
silver bells...brass gongs,
Dinner for two...chowders and stews,
when we tag along...when we're a tad too strong.

Our chairs...our prayers,
city police...city mayors,
three piece suits...buttonhole tears,
mountain lions...grizzly bears.

Our hopes...our coats,
our detergent...our bars of soap,
fishing line...saddles and ropes,
ice cream sundaes...boats that float.

Our greeds...religious creeds,
green vegetables...garden seeds,
four-leaf clovers...Mississippi River reeds,
bumps in the night...loving pet peeves.

Our many colored eyes...many teary whys,
many hopeful tries...all the loser's sighs,
soldiers and weapons...spies and lies,
all the many smiles...so many long goodbyes.

Is it sincere for one...bias for all,
is this why our People...still cry?

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