Poems by Mark O. Decker

Always We Want More

To hear, in the winds,

the sounds of riches,

is to begin wanting, aching,

for more wealth, 

more riches; but,

what are riches to a man

who has everything

that is important;

They are nothing,

mere specs of sand 

in the proverbial hourglass of time;

Only the fool drops his real treasures

in pursuit of a promise, an envy;

Particularly a promise

that is not in harmony

with his nature.

 

The Old Man Cracks Down

Have I been saying

that winning isn’t everything;

Where was my head;

My son heard it and reminded me, and

i’m tired of losing;

Losing gets old, and

unlike wine,

does not improve with age,

does not improve one’s disposition;

So, this next year is full of resolutions 

which I will keep;

Underlying them all

is a return to winning,

being victorious

with Teddy Roosevelt-like determination,

William Buckley-like intellect,

the savvy of a chemical engineer;

Hey new year,

i’m coming on like gangbusters;

The real resolution is personal resolve.

 

A Song

Sitting, singing in my heart;

Life is good to me, now,

has been bad to me at times;

I always deserved what I got, and

i got the worst, and the best;

Life has been good, and

the heavens have looked kindly

on this poor soul;

But, I’m not poor, no more,

i ‘ve got all in life that has meaning;

A family, a job, 

some friends that aren’t slobs;

Got a pocket full of jingle,

and happy memories

pursuing that elusive rainbow, and

yes, it shine when you get there;

Howdy, folks, a big ‘ol Woodsfield howdy

to the world I love and the people in it;

Our problems 

are feeble excuses for failure;

We’re gonna win a few

from this day forward.

 

The Artist’s Surge

Is it the artist

that feels a surge of life,

that overwhelms,

runs the full range of seeing, feeling;

The emotion overcomes one, and

is so strong that one must stop,

dead in one’s tracks,

to take stock of the situation;

The artist grabs it,

nourishes it with thought,

with presence of mind;

The artist strokes the surge

to give it shape and meaning,

glorify, and clarify, its possessive nature,

turn it outward, or inward,

depending on the medium being used;

Art is a joy, discovered;

It’s cultivation, the artist’s forte.

 

Young Warrior Speaks

I cried in the forest,

heard Indian calls depicting Nature’s soul;

I laughed in the city,

heard a crow outside my office window;

All, is Nature’s soulful bliss,

the sound of which

fills the body temple

with excruciating love;

I asked who, what, when and where,

all the right questions;

Back came the answers,

they were my questions repeated, plus

had I cheated and why;

Go back to the fire, said I,

there is where you saw your reflection;

There, you were an intact being,

exact, like an engineer’s calculation;

Come now forward, young chief,

an eagle feather is your earning;

Now you must soar, and 

pour yourself into flight;

No room is left for fright.