Randy McClave Poems

I made my son a jacket
From the old clothes that I once wore
Some pieces used were from my youth
And some pieces were what I wore in war
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My love it cannot be measured
With any meter or measuring device
My love it is of honor and treasured
To own it, there is a vow and not a price,
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Abigail, dear sweet Abigail
How I wish our love it did not fail
Wished we had walked the very same trail
I wished that our love, did prevail.
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We are born either to love or hate
That is our choosing and not that of fate
The roads that we walk that is our own choosing
We know what is sad and also what is amusing
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In the fiery pits of hell,
Where all the demons dwell,
The Devil waits for us one and all,
Waiting for a moment for us to fall.
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There is a pain that is attacking my brain
With agony throbbing and torment,
It brings tears to my eye, I sit and cry
As my pain becomes ever more frequent,
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You babbling, chattering, gossiping woman
Suffice to say you have said enough
With your prattle, rumors and hearsay
I am tired and sick of hearing of that stuff.
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When I was a boy, I thought I could fly
Up with the birds above the trees in the sky
Then when I became a man, I found out it was a lie
If I jumped out a window, I assuredly would die.
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I found you and I loved you
That is how the story goes
I gave you roses and candy
And of our love, poems I did compose,
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As I raised my glass to give a toast
I nod my head and give tribute to my host
Giving my expression of honor and goodwill
Now my duties for this evening I did fulfill
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