The Advisor is still speaking. My response will have to wait.

I know I should be so grateful. There’s so much now on my plate.

There’s this problem I can’t listen. All these voices in my mind.

A warning with some guidelines. With no words described as kind.

I am walking to her closer now. Standing, grinning eye to eye.

The Advisor has gone quiet now. I ask. “You sure it’s not a lie?”

My question has caused confusion. I can see her far off gaze.

She’s going to her safe house, where soft music always plays.

I know it can’t be permanent, someday she will return.

She has so much to teach me and I have so much to learn.

Things are far from used to be.

We don’t know what to discard.

The more we look, the less we see.

We are listening but it is hard.

The leaders are in shambles.

The followers have gotten bold.

Their voices sound like rambles.

Like the world they’ve gotten old.

I no longer feel like waiting.

A new renaissance is the need.

The love has left for hating.

A sadness steeped in greed.

The world keeps right on turning.

People have had their say.

There appears this lack of learning.

No God… no need to pray.

When I was a child I read about this woman who was one of the richest people in the world and the Guinness World Book of Records dubbed her ‘The Most Miserly Person in the World.’

The thing that stuck out in my mind then wasn’t that she saved scraps from bars of soap to be used later in spite of having tens of millions of dollars; it was that her son needed to have his leg amputated due to delays in finding a free medical clinic.

Now that I’m an adult and have some life experiences and have met people who are similar to this miser in nature; I find it odd that not once did anyone ever suggest in their writings about Hetty Green that she might have been mentally ill.

It’s dark and cold and silent and darkest before the dawn.

The calendar is all empty except the numbers nothing’s on.

There’s no plans now in the planner. Nothing much to do.

Except holding it together and somehow muddle through.

Nothing is still something, nothing ventured nothing gained.

The wise stay at the here and now. Their quiet has explained.

There is no need to go there, the past is past not wrong.

You were so much younger then and now you don’t belong.

I saw a photo yesterday and for a second I felt old.

Not so much a bad thing just a story to be told.

I have thought in silence about what approach will be best going forward when dealing with difficult persons and have come to the conclusion of silence.

The Lions Share is traveling from distant lands they call abroad.

The wise men have all cautioned with a wink, a smile and nod.

There’s a boat on the horizon, off course and still they row.

For where they land can’t be as bad as the horrors that they know.

So bring it on your best scowls, your judgements and your scorn.

If you aren’t going to help, you’re on a path thats really worn.

The cubs are waiting quiet with their mothers and their fears.

They’re waiting for the Lions Share who are searching through their tears.

It’s lovely at the summit if you care to make the trip.

The return is fast and furious if at the top you slip.

Early morning is the darkest at the sec before the dawn.

You just let go and feel the breath imagine you’ve nothing on.

Every night I go there, sometimes I don’t recall.

But when I do is when I wake, I’ve no control at all.

Last night I felt the summit with feet still young and strong.

I felt the breeze of youthful ease and a belly full of song.

“You eat when you’re hungry and you drink when you’re dry. If whiskey don’t kill me, I’ll live till I die.”

*

“Three score and ten and if by reason of great strength yet shall soon fly away.”

*

“Another day closer to the grave.”

The charm is being doled out.

The healing has begun.

The smiles are now warming…

Their eyes have twinkled at the sun.

It’s Mr and its Mrs.

They’re riding on that horse.

The one that’s blowing kisses.

Without the use of force.

We sure are going to miss them.

You can almost hear their thoughts.

Their fears have all lost their masks.

Their stomachs are in knots.

I think it’s time to let it go.

The fiddler you must pay.

You dance with who they tell you to.

Or you best be on your way.

Dennis Mantin

The cold and cool of winter, tis the season of the discontented.

Should be grateful for this time but those feelings are sold or rented.

Not much here to look at, no not us… we can’t boast.

The suns still rising in the east, and looking messy on the coast.

Change is coming at the top, they are preparing the great meal.

For every winner there’s a loser and they are shouting about a steal.

In the north here we stay quiet with just a side of nevermind.

With one eye on the tele, and the valley of the blind.

I’ve been trying to find the writer cause I don’t see the script.

The rules are out the window and democracy has been flipped.

Maybe there’s no endgame, a plot twist to be sure.

When fear is the entertainment then the goals are sick and pure.

When power is the weapon. When the monster has to feed.

It’s simple not mysterious… turn the page… see the greed.