MontyCaldwell

Time Is On My Side

I often like to procrastinate;
no need to be in a hurry;
allow myself time to debate;
time should not be a worry.

I allow for adequate time to think;
no decision should be rushed;
even when destiny is on its brink;
choices must be

Time Doesn’t March

Happy New Year; or so they say;
it feels just like any other;
Time has brought us another day;
it seems like Yesterday’s brother.

The sun rises; then eventually sets;
we’d be surprised, if it didn’t;
another New Year; time begets;
and, we’

Till The End Of Time

Tho most don’t know it; time is a king;
the ruler throughout physical nature;
commander and ruler of everything;
others’ titles are mere nomenclature.

Time determines when we awaken;
and when we go to sleep;
it determines when dawn is breaking;
and, how long

The Victims

Hardship has always been a season of life;
no one born can escape its throes;
wisdom outlines all reasons for strife;
necessity demands it’s imposed.

Life cannot be measured by material success;
materiality exists, but a season;
the Master insists we all face duress;
love is the

The Verbal Sculptor

Destiny has made me a sculptor of thought;
creating the Master’s messages of love.
But how can a sculptor create what ought;
with words that were crafted above?

How does one choose from the hardest stone,
to carve out an ediface of thought?
Does the Master

The Unfinished Poem

Often I’m a poet who talks too much;
perhaps it’s how it’s all designed;
maybe, with reality, I’m out of touch;
with too much to say, on my mind.

I attempt to boldly say what I think;
but, there is too much to

The Ugly Caterpillar

The Master was creator of all living things;
but the caterpillar seems the most ugly;
his appearance was not what beauty brings;
and, no one could say he was cuddly.

To many observers, he was called a worm;
crawling around, appeared his duty;
but, only by death,

The Tyranny Of Memory

Memory is a merciless master;
commanding my rapt attention;
focusing on my every disaster;
while hiding in another dimension.

Memory is never seen; nor heard;
but makes its presence known;
despite seeming somewhat blurred;
often appearing when I’m alone.

Memory often has hate on its