I got my wake up call

but I’d rather practice my snoring

and the day goes on

the cuckoo clock won’t stay quiet

you could call it my conscience

but I wouldn’t

it would mean getting out of bed

to call my clock a name

and I’m comfortable where I am

(what can I say

I’m a very literal minded man)

and the day goes on

so does the ringing

my assignment was to shine a light

and guide the frozen to the heat

but I’d rather stay sleeping

at least I am warm

where I am

I just wish that my alarm

wouldn’t go on and on

like a siren

someone really should do something

about my problem

--

--

A glimmer of life

is kindled in the eyes of a child

and fanned into flame through embrace of his father

and the love of his mother

after the child has grown into a man

he will take from his own fire to kindle another

candle bearing his own name

and the cycle will continue

for as long as the world still stands

one generation

passing their light to the next

tender

flickering wicks

guarded from the wind

by a woman somewhere

unknown

and forgotten

but the one willing to give up everything

for the life continuing

for the lights passing on

and on

--

--

When the choir is wailing away about the dangerous others

about hatred and the glories of war

maybe we need to be the one to sing a different song

when the drums of industry are pounding out an industrial racket

a grinding turmoil of power chords and violence

maybe we need to go to another concert

where the Spirit whispers

through holy melody

where peace flows

through the hands of a well dressed conductor

where we don’t even miss the cymbals of chaos

because we are singing a different song

a song of joy that the world doesn’t know

and thinks that we’re crazy that we do

--

--

In the hard days

the hardest days of my journey

through the garden

of weeds that plagued my mind

the trip became easier

just to know

that you felt it too

the waves of my pain

blended with sunlight

the distant grumbling of coming lightning

mixed with the colours of spring

the bouquet that you bring

into my tangled thoughts of thistles

to show me that you felt it too

the aching of someone in need of redemption

as I faced a horizon

polluted by the thorns of depression

telling me that there was nowhere for us to go

that I would be better off alone

it was your arms that carried the weight of my bad ideas

it was your love that carried me through

to the flowering field of a healthy life

--

--

Kelvin Bueckert

Kelvin Bueckert

Lives and writes on the plains of Manitoba, Canada…he is an actor, writer, and has also been known to peddle books on his website…www.kelvinbueckert.com