Am I down to my last dream?

It all began February 2, 1947

my first glimpse of light,

it was on a Sunday

no idea of the coming fight.

My entrance wasn’t gentle

it was a surprise at noon,

as I peed on the doctors suit

because I arrived too soon.

Those first years are lost

with no memories from then,

I know I lived them

but just can’t find them.

Vague little snapshots

run through my mind,

but with not one reference

where they fit into time.

I’ve heard some stories

about family members,

made up or factual

aimed at both genders.

Tales of my father

rumors of my mother,

stories of generations

confessions from my brother.

So many questions

and the unfound answers,

to have lost my young past

It’s traumatic as cancers.

The way we were raised

maybe not the best,

but they did what they could

leaving us to the rest.

There was not a word

for us to have goals,

dreams not mentioned

two major holes.

Slowly they came

little peeks of dreams,

a pleasant break

from those with schemes.

Whatever they were

I really can’t tell,

because they’re forgotten

all gone to Hell.

Many years later

I’d write a story,

“Shop of Hope and Dreams”

containing a bit of glory.

So now I’m older

once again all alone,

I think about dreams

a life in monotone.

How many do we get

maybe a limited number,

and if not used

do they rot like lumber.

One thing for sure

there were just to few,

not enough in my life

and that makes me blue.

Where do they start

from where do they come,

are they a gift from family past,

so few to leave me glum.

Surly they were far to few

feeling like there was a theft,

how many do I get

if numbered how many are left.

I’m very afraid now

allowing myself a dream,

maybe another woman

to make my eyes gleam.

To have another lady

so hard to match the last,

Wondering am I down to my

very last dream so fast.

Gary R. Cramer

May 21, 2018 ©

Crying

What is it about crying

that can take our breath,

certainly the arrival

of dreaded dark death.

The different types

like tears of joy,

from sweet baby girls

or a playful little boy.

So many sources

with accounts untold,

both good and bad

at times hard to withhold.

How are they started

what are your triggers,

good times or bad

or multiple alcoholic jiggers.

This I must confess

it’s sad but true,

a tear has watered my beer

when I was sad and blue.

Maybe like me

witnessing a Flash Mob,

viewing a sunrise or sunset

that cause me to sob.

Hearing a song

like Amazing Grace,

or the sound of taps then

gone without any trace.

The sound of bugle or

amazing Scottish bag pipes,

tugging at ones heart

with delicate swipes.

These mysterious attacks

that delve our souls,

sometimes fulfilling

sometimes leaving holes.

Where are they rooted

where did they begin,

sitting and growing

with joy or sin.

How can it happen

from deep within self,

rushing up so fast

from a vast memory shelf.

It’s said by some a mere

cleansing of the eyes,

but what of the hurt

and the emotional ties.

For they speak from

deep within the heart,

like a vein of gold

from where do they start?

Young boys are told

a man doesn’t cry,

if that is the case

then they shouldn’t sigh.

So rich and shining

a reflection of life,

showing both joy

and the pain of strife.

A doctor I’m not

human anatomy unclear,

how are they linked

no answer coming I fear.

But this I know

without any a doubt,

I’d much rather cry

than give a loud shout.

So brace your humanity

shed that enriched tear,

open up your heart

without nary a fear.

Let it roll down

your soft cheek,

to tell the whole world

see my heart speak.

Gary R. Cramer

February 16, 2020

Carneros Wildflower

Carneros Wildflower

flying busy as a bee,

So bright and colorful

a spirit beautiful to see.

The name and sound alone

puts a sweetness on the tongue,

The work of untold bees

and a soft song still unsung.

Her dark hair holds the allure

of Pinot’s rich and dark

And body equally as majestic

as a grand national park.

Deep brown eyes

rich as Carneros loam,

Trigger thoughts of a fire

snuggling warm at home.

Somewhere out there

a man or three

Had her and lost her

and again she is free.

Having slept with an angel

what’s a guy to say,

Too stupid and selfish

now alone night and day.

Some stop and stare

in amusement and awe,

With a grin on their face

from what they just saw.

Carneros Wildflower

flying busy as a bee,

So bright and colorful

a spirit beautiful to see.

Gary Cramer

May 25, 2015