Four Main Types of Writers (personal opinion)

The Lonely Writer

Some writings tell me
This person is lonely
And is reaching out
For the touch of a friendly comment
These writers are sad, solitary,
Isolated, but good persons
And quite often very good writers

The needy juvenile writer

Some writings contain words
Or language meant to shock
And to offend.
These writers are lonely also
But in a different way.
These writers are simply saying
Like a little child
“hey! I exist! Someone better

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poem by David Whalen
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Another New year, Another New Beginning?

Another new year!
Another new beginning?

Will we get this one right?
Will we have learned from the last one?
Will we treat our kids better?
Will they be healthier and better educated?
Will we be more prudent, save more money?
Will we even have a job?
Will we keep the one we have?
Are we gonna stop smoking?
Are we gonna start dieting?
Are we gonna start exercising?
Are we gonna stop watching so much TV?
Are we gonna walk more and stop so much driving?
Will we help someone who has less?
Will we be thankful for what we have?
Will we renounce war?
Will we live a little longer?
Will we want to?

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poem by David Whalen
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Never Too Old

You’re never too old to pop plastic bubbles
Never too old to have a twinkle in your eye
Never too old to stir up some trouble
Never too old til the day that you die

You’re never to old to sneak a few cookies
Never too old to give someone the ‘eye’
Never too old to like ‘Star Wars and Wookies’
Never too old til the day that you die

You’re never too old to enjoy a good dirty joke
Never too old to still wish you could fly
Never too old to think you could croak
Never too old til the day that you die

You’re never too old to splash thru a puddle
Never too old to watch a fire truck scream by
Never to old for tag football and to huddle
Never too old til the day that you die

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poem by David Whalen
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Wee Folk (read Only If You Believe)

Wee People

Tis a pity and a shame, that no one knows me name
Tis a fact that I’m a hard to know little fellow
In the glens and the highlands, people know me fame
And the fact I carry gold that glitters yellow

Tis a fact that rainbows touch the sod…and
Where they touch, there be treasure
And that silken thread from thistle pod
Ties rainbows ends to heather

Me self and me kinfolk, nimble and quick
Know exactly where the rainbows end
And no mortal yet has managed to trick
A wee person into telling the where or the when

Mortals no longer believe in wee people and such
Tis a pity the magic they’ve lost

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poem by David Whalen
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Sweet Lucy

I can hear those bedsprings a’squeakin’
From halfway down the block
And how come it gets so quiet, lil’ mama,
When my key rattles in the lock

“You say you ain’t misbehaving” sweet Lucie
But that ain’t the answer I want
Who’s that going out the back door lil’ mama
Whenever I come in the front?

How come your hair’s so pretty
How come you got gloss on your lips
How come’s your eyes are all mascarey
Why’s there sweaty fingerprints on your hips?

I beginning to suspect you might be cheatin’
Imma beginning’ to have my doubt
Imma beginning’ to wonder who’s comin’ in Sweet mamma
The minute I’m goin’ out

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poem by David Whalen
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Of Color Red

Of all the hues on Nature's palette
Tis the only one,
that at the same inspires,
Both passion and dread

Tis the singular color
that conspires in such fine fashion,
to aptly ascribe to both
the living and the dead

Tis a schizophrenic tint
of unpredictable nature
With both love and hate
described as such

And coined in no common nomenclature
As the outstanding adjective
for cold cruelty,
or torrid touch

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poem by David Whalen
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Babies, Moms, Memories and Aromas

Babies, Moms, memories and Aromas

Young baby, helpless and wee
Head reposes on mom’s shoulder
Nestled in soft arms comfortably
Smells the hair of the one who holds her

Mom’s fresh shampoo scent, becomes imprinted deep
A comforting, soothing essence… in
The child’s vast, and unfilled memory keep
Takes up permanent residence

Small, chubby fingers twirling ringlets of hair
While the singular scent of her mother…is
Being tucked away, with loving care
Memories and scents stacked atop one another

Sweet baby powder is the smell on the palm
Of the hand That gently pats the child’s back
The odor re-enforcing a reassuring calm… and

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poem by David Whalen
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Question Me Now, My Children

Question Me Now, My children

Ask questions of me, my children
For time has a way…
Of slipping through fingers
Like reapers through hay

Your heritage is a treasure
That one day you’ll have need
Questions in need of answers
And no answers to heed

Was your great grandfather
A brown-eyed lad
Was your great grandmother
Perhaps a little bit mad

Ask about your ancestry
So interesting and rich
Was great aunt Sarah just an ol’ maid…

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poem by David Whalen
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Aphorisms: Men and women, Happiness and misery

Some Aphorisms

Happiness is good health and a bad memory unknown
If I dropped dead right now I’d be the happiest man alive Samuel Goldwyn
Ask yourself if you are happy and you will cease to be John Stuart Mill
Be happy, it’s a way of being wise Odette

Anxiety is interest paid on trouble before it’s due Dean Inge
Harmony seldom makes a headline unknown
Don’t do whatever you like-like whatever you do unknown
Comedy is tragedy plus time Carol Burnett

When it rains look up rather than down
For without the rain there’d be no rainbow Jerry Chinn
Everything human is pathetic, the secret source
Of humor itself is not joy but sorrow unknown

I love my raggedy-ass ol’ life
I never want to die Dennis Trudell
We’d all be sorry if

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poem by David Whalen
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Happy Fourth of July America!

Wanna' know how many lil' kids
Go to bed hungry in the U.SA
Each night?

If I said "over a million"
Would you sleep any
less sound tonight?

And how many of you
Would agree with me
That being a kid can be rough?

Well…over six million American kids
Get either very little food…each day
Or simply not enough.

Feelin' uncomfortable yet? I hope so! ! !
Think about it, when you're chowin' down
This bountiful 4th of July

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poem by David Whalen
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