My early life seemed always
to play the same old song.
I lived a decades-long phase
where I was told “You’re wrong.”
Everything I did or said
was corrected or changed.
It at last went to my head.
I felt foolish and deranged.
In my effort to change my life
I took another way.
I dumped corrective strife.
It seemed foolish to stay.
Now I see the truth of my strange and weird way:
I’m at last honest. Now I must be certain of what I say.
It seems you cannot wash away
false tales of the Scarlet A.
No matter how untrue,
those rumors will follow you.
You can be washed pure and clean,
and know in your heart what repentance means,
as you are forgiven and changed with His love,
and readied for His courts above.
Yet others (who may be meaning well,)
will false tales and gossip tell.
And you may never have the chance
to clear your name or learn the circumstance.
So stand strong, even in pain. Sometimes all you can do
is remember again how He’s forgiven you.
The wheels clack and moan./
The coaches bend and sway./
The rails sing along/
to the song of the railway.
You glimpse into hidden back yards;/
junk noone wants you to see./
Ripped apart trash and old cars./
Back-porch sitters, lonely.
Then scenery opens to your view/
that noone else appreciates./
Beaches, marshes, prairies too./
Mountain vistas, sunset lakes.
A new perspective is yours to gain,
to ponder and enjoy when you ride the train.
You need me to tell you
secrets of my soul
so the world can view
my patterns and where I go.
Evidences on-line
of you with me.
Verbage sublime
of how we can be.
But these are not sounds
that should be shouted loud.
These are hidden feelings profound;
quiet moments of which I’m proud.
If one has to ask, beg, plead or request,
then they’ll never gain the truth that’s best.
When you no longer have time
to receive my verse,
to accept the rhymes
that I reherse.
Yet you, still, are my muse
regardless of my heart’s folly,
or what I’ll use
(in terms of technology)
To deliver my lines
and my romance;
my feelings refined;
my desire to dance;
When you’ve put communication on the shelf,
I’ll find ways to write, and dance with myself.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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