Remember Me
Remember me when life gets tough
With its edges ragged and rough.
Remember me with sweet wine on your lips
With its flavor at my tired fingertips.
Remember me when the songbird sings
A lullaby, so sweet and melodic
In my unhearing ears
It still rings.
Remember me when the sunset awes you in the skies
I still see the beauty in my unseeing eyes.
Remember everything that brings us closer to God
Our prayers and emotions
Feeding a stray dog
Or a bum on the street with no shoes on his feet.
He will remember us for the deeds that we do
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poem by John Shea
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The Garden
I found a garden in the shaded woods,
My nose led me to the aromatic magic it produced.
Every plant struggled for a ray of sun.
Then my work had begun,
I did all by hand.
The rich loam held promise,
That my toil was not in vain.
I climbed high and low.
To allow sunshine, air and rain.
Whos garden I pondered,
Then thought with a sigh.
Mine is not to reason why.
I left some beautiful weeds,
For they deserved some of this good deed.
Regal the roses,
And lowly the weed.
Beauty is but in the eye of the beholder.
Life is short for you and I.
And so for natures downtrodden.
Mother nature never has a blind eye.
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poem by John Shea
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With pen in hand.
I have been blessed
Reading of the manic, the happy
And the stressed.
Prodded on by hunting poems web site,
I try to rhyme with all my might.
Who would of guessed?
I am sourronded by peers,
Who write about fears and fantasy,
Birds dogs and gators.
About sin and strife,
The crux of ones life.
In an elavator or in a war.
They speak of love and lust
The one most mighty
Or when they went bust.
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poem by John Shea
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Prerequisites to a poem
This is hard to reveal..so so much for zeal.
Before writing a poem, I have no clue what it might be.
First I think of a subject, love life or the weather
The colors in forests or the sweet taste of nectar.
Then I think about women and the color of thier hair
Their lips and their curves and the brakes that I lost.
Then suddenly an inspiration. A passing thing many times,
For a beer gave me other thoughts good for the job.
Reality sets in and I know I have to write something,
Good wrong or right. Thinking and thinking, I continue drinking.
Go shea your a poet and most people know it,
What a sad tale might show up.
So I made a promise to give beer a break
And the next verse I write will be straight from my heart
With a hot cup of tea for my readers and a shot just for me.
poem by John Shea
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Traveled
The flight was a long one
Bumpy but fun.
At seventeen years of age young.
The Andes lingered near at arrival,
Now started my fight for survival.
At seventeen and a rival.
My cousins were cruel and ill fated,
Because my prowess that they under estimated.
Soon the streets were but my mate.
Taken in by a kindly doctor
Who had kennels that needed upkeep.
I managed to learn and not weep.
I was quite a sad black sheep.
In servitude for a year
But treated real fair.
I lost my Irish cool.
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poem by John Shea
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Holiday meals two
A woman in england is breeding mini pigs as pets
She might have some regrets.
My crabapples will have a mouth where to park
Pork so tender with meat white and dark.
Small indoor cookers will make such a come back
Mini chittilings will be just a new snack
Bagged al natural
Or bar-B-que flavored
Wont that be wild.
I like em hot
Some like em mild.
For a party of twenty
There will be plenty.
We will cook two or three
As directed.
The big bad wolf will be happy cause he has emphazima
Old Yeller could surley handle the rest.
Babe is at odds with no mini sheep to herd
So from him you will not even here one word.
Clinton upset cause not bred in Arkansas
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poem by John Shea
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Bird food
I was sitting on a bale of hay
A blue jay flew my way
Robins did their bobbing worm stab
Into the still frozen ungiving earth
I saw her blue eyes in the carolina sky
They made me want to sprout wings and go fly
Where I flew was the nest I intended to fight for
I ruffuled my feathers to say nevermore for that piper on the shore
She gave me a glance and smiled to my dismay
For today the ground thawed and food was to stay
So plentiful and fine
feathery and devine
sticky and sweet
smelling like mesquite in the new found heat
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poem by John Shea
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Message in the wind.
I stepped on it and shook my foot,
It hung on like a fish freshly hooked.
It appeared to have feces on one edge, There was my foot stuck on its
words.
The message was hard for me to see,
My glasses are greasy being a cook you see.Who cooked that sticky stuff up? Not Dukey my Boarder Collie pup.
I couldn't bend over, The best way to recover,
From this dillema I stuck my foot into.
For age made me stiff and full of pain,
So I wandered in the rain with the message.
I imagined what it said. are you happy, sad or wed?
Are you hungry fat and fed?
Are your hormones normal, your parties formal?
Or are you just like me?
A man with some shit stuck to his foot.
His imfamy and fame stuck in some nook.
Perhaps the message carries the secret.
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poem by John Shea
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Where?
Where do we go I am debating
To ponder the fears of love or of hating.
I am so scared the thoughts that I am thinking
They give me excuse for some of my drinking.
Wells are deep and so is hell
Who made me so hard
That I cannot even tell
What is good and what is fair
What is here and what is there
Where is up and where is down
Is a smile a frown upside down
Peace a dream dreamed by killers
Life a story read in thrillers.
Who made me hard
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poem by John Shea
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