Good times, bad times & my cactus Christmas tree

My first Christmas tree, thirty years ago
Upon my arrival in Las Vegas
Shall always be remembered so,
As one of my greatest

My pickup truck was my home
My refuge and my castle
I was totally, absolutely alone…
But… it wasn’t such a hassle

I drove into the desert one day
To see what I could see
And lo and behold beside the road
Found my perfect Christmas tree

It was a three inch tall cactus
All attitude, prickly and brash
And I proudly installed it
Upon my ol’ trucks dash

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poem by David Whalen
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Bus Trip To No Particular Place Pt. I

Pt I

Decided to go nowhere, yet cover great distances
Take a long time in arriving, to no one particular place
Experience other people’s ways of surviving
Experience their struggles, their unknowing grace

The bus trip started with no particular direction
It wasn’t my point to go from point A to Point B
The point was to get a feel for the face and complexion
Of my fellow travelers… across this asphaltic sea

A buzz cut young man, across the aisle, smiled and told me his story
Fresh out of high school and headed for camp Lejuene
Soon to be a proud Marine and bask in the glory
Yet fearing that combat and death could come soon

He transferred to another bus with a wistful smile and a wave
One could sense the reluctance of his leaving this place
Would destiny give him a bright future… or a dark grave?

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poem by David Whalen
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Surreality

Empty space, time and dimensions
A place Where clocks have no value
and time no meaning
A place in the mind
with no geographical measures and bonds
The province of fools
and those seeking redemption
Too much explanation,
too much rationalization,
And the world of empty ambition
from which there’s no rest
A place of chaos, confusion and panic
In the roseate brilliance from fiery forges
Or dim lit sky… bisected by silhouettes of birds
Where the pull of a thread
Unravels the sweater
And chains chatter coldly
Upon hollow flagpole
Where sands are etched in hieroglyphs
By footprints and talons

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poem by David Whalen
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Watching Strangers, Watching Me

Wondering what people think of me
Pondering what goes through their minds
When they turn and look at me
Their expressions of all ilk and kinds

Most likely the same as I wonder of them
Do they care if they’re way too fat
Are they proud that they’re appealingly slim
Or do they even wonder about that

Do they wonder if I’m out of work
If I’m just barely managing to eke by
Do they wonder if… as they oft do themselves
If kind words and deeds, brings a tear to my eye

Do they wonder why I always carry a book
Do they ever wonder what I write in my pad
Are they perhaps comparing the way that I look
Are they wondering about the life I’ve had

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poem by David Whalen
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Like a Kitten Left By The Road

Each time I first post
a newly written poem
I feel deep regret
that I’ve done it in haste
As if I’ve dropped off
An unwanted kitten
On a lonely country road
To fend for it’s self
Through a strange alien world

I’ve never truly dropped off a kitten
But if I ever did, I’m sure
After sixty seconds I’d be
Turning around and driving like an idiot
With a tear on my cheek, yelling
“ I’m comin’ to get you lil' kitty. I’m so sorry! ”

Well, that’s the way I am with my poems
Thirty seconds after I post them
I feel so sorry for them

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poem by David Whalen
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Famous Last Words

Famous Last Words

It ain’t loaded…don’t worry!
Trains just look like they’re goin’ real fast

Is cottage cheese supposed to be furry?
I ain’t gonna wait til all these trucks get past

If you Just touch your finger to it,
The most you’ll feel is a tingle

Well dear, since we’re being honest here
Hell yes…I’d rather be single

Just give him the finger
That ain’t a real gun

No…no…my good lady!
Aint no way that’s my son!

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poem by David Whalen
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You Change...So Do Places

You change…so do places
You get older…as places do too
You look about for familiar faces
But only memory’s ghost looks back at you

You see the places…places in the heart
You hear long gone voices from the past
You still seem.. and yearn to be a part
Of memories that seem… to fade so fast

Fleeting touch…soft brush of lips
Memories of young love, breath held in wonder
Soft gentle touch of tender finger tips
Young hearts aflame, emotions torn asunder

That old red wagon, that very first snow
The big hill where we coasted, now seems so small
the old homestead stood here…where did it go?
It’s been replaced with a cold, soulless mall

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poem by David Whalen
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Like a seed

It’s impossible to force
A good piece of writing
It can only come from inspiration
It should flow from the mind
To the fingers and then
Through the keyboard
To the screen

A good piece of writing
Will come of it’s own volition
Without urging, yet with compulsion.
A certain musical phrase you’ve read
A lyrical play of words
That sticks in your mind
Can be the impetus for the lifting
Of the flood gates of inspiration

And once opened, has a compulsive
Addiction, that can be indulged freely
And yet will not be denied

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poem by David Whalen
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It's About Time

Time Is….

Ethereal and immaterial,
as a wisp of vapour
Untenable, impalpable,
as thoughts in the mind

Indescribable, invisible,
yet worth more than treasure
Ne’er carried with one,
yet ne’er truly left behind

Oft times borrowed to live on
Oft times spent in haste
Oft times forgotten or foregone
Oft times given to waste

Time can be given as a loan to a friend
Can be borrowed just as well
Time Can be given and time can be taken

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poem by David Whalen
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The poetess, the moon...and the woods Pt1

A tear traced a path on her cheek in the moonlight
As her lips brushed the brow of her sleeping child

She stood still for a moment, with eyes closed tightly
Corners of lips pulled up… in a winsome smile

Strode heavily to the open window
stared out into the woods, soft lit by the moon

Then with a sigh pulled down the window
And quietly tiptoed out of the room

Glanced in at her husband, long asleep in their bed
And in her mind gave him a kiss on the top of his head

Then sat at her desk and finished her poem
Sat back and reviewed it… one last time

It was about her life… and about her home
And about the glow of the woods in the moonshine

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poem by David Whalen
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