I never was much of a poet, so I’m very glad I know you, Bob.
Very often, I find you have written a poem from my heart, when I was looking the other way. And for that, I thank you!
*HUG*
‘Face
In poetry, I tend to be clinical rather than emotional.
Sometimes I can find a bridge ...
The Heart is a FistSized Organ
The heart is a fist-sized organ,
That works throughout the day,
It clenches and throbs with a rhythm,
And it hasn’t much time for play.
Our hearts have grown used to grabbing,
And holding on for dear life,
It’s hard to know that we must relax,
Amid all the tumult and strife.
The music it beats to is distant,
In quiet we hear it the best,
That’s when we stop all the straining,
And that’s when the heart takes a rest.
It isn’t just muscle that does the work,
But a cycle, (I thought you might ask!),
Like an oar lifted out of the water,
That then bends once again to the task.
In order to function as it’s designed,
It must squeeze a bit, and then let go,
And just like the times of excitement,
It can race, or it can go slow.
Our loved ones enter to fill us,
They empty us when they must leave,
Oh, what a hurtful happiness!
The sad joy that compels us to grieve.
Cupid’s arrows are just tiny wedges,
Finding chinks in the armor to slip,
To batter the stony exterior,
With a lifetime to loosen the grip.
Like a hand that can clench or be gentle,
Now held open to something above.
The heart is a fist-sized organ,
That’s receiving an inflow of love.
NicknamedBob . . . . . . December 8, 2006