guess who?

there's this dude:
he doesn't "show it"
(as Lord Byron would say,
if this were still his day,
following general rules)
and still, and here's the kill --
he's a 'hattanite,
way far from a luddite,
or even a hittite --
but with all your wit
dark or half-lit,
can you figure it:
who should be granted
this title,
master of all entitled,
crafter of all manner
of pomes?



December 29, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

First Church of Ned's Point

the ocean is angry
on this last Sunday morning of 2009,
with two-foot seas
kissing the fog, roughly,
as the tide charges the shore,
heading straight for me,
the lone scribbler,
once again pining for You;
my love cannot plumb
these surly waters,
it can only seek refuge
in the pavilion here
at the First Church of Ned's Point,
which You christened
on a sunny, more hospitable day
last August,
when Your eyes lit my way,
and Your laughter was my soundtrack;
this stormy day does nothing
to erase the mind's images,
caught and kept,
wrestling and surging,
floating out of my eyes,
surrounding me.



December 27, 2009, for the Wifey. Only four days!

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

chickadee symphony

(your favorite poet is a bit low on the lively scale, and offers the following, written last month, as something for you to enjoy while he tries valiantly to find a reason to go on; well, okay, maybe I am not your favorite poet, but still, humor me, please)


outside my window today,
the chickadee symphony
plays away the day,
as my November soul
feels so old and grey:
wishing that it were
another day in May;
anything to remove this ring
from around my neck;
cast off the weight of repose,
and throw myself
at the feet of all those
who wish me well:
aw, what the hell,
I have done it,
just as I chose.



November 22, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Merry Christmas, Baby

the clouds have clamped a tight lid
on the whole of the harbor
and all of the bay that can be seen
from Ned's Point
this Christmas Morning,
as I sit, pensive, praying
to some god, somewhere,
thanking her for the gift of You;
I am, all told, not much of a man,
surely not one to be remembered
in history books
or nursery rhymes,
but I have had a few looks,
and more than a few times
that may be worth recounting,
the sum total of which
might be something amounting
to something;
but the best, for sure,
has been saved for last,
time with You, loved, and passed.



December 25, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

O Christmas!

I remember the birth
of the mirth, of the joy,
though I was only a small boy:
I remember Christmas,
untouched, unblemished,
a simple time, one to relish,
enjoying the ordinary pleasures
as if they were new-found treasures;

now it all seems so stale,
so old and forgotten,
so much a sad tale
of times misbegotten;

maybe it's just me,
maybe I have lost all my
silly carefree serendipity;

in any event, I do not want
to dampen, or otherwise tamper
your merriment this night,
or to even temper your joy
with some of my sad employ;

go on, and you make the most of it,
and I will watch, from farther off,
and see the best of which
your good heart makes of such,
and cheer you on,
and cheer you on;

I am here with you, always,
just sometimes a bit further on,
just sometimes a bit further on.



December 24, 2009. To all my friends, Merry Christmas.

Copyright © Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.