Lost Dog

I’ve always dreamed of
finding a dog that’s lost.
I could be a hero for a day –
and I would do it at no cost.

I’d make a four-legged friend.
The kids would laugh and play.
I’d bow and wave goodbye to all,
and be on my jolly way.

But lost dogs are elusive –
more so if you stay in.
They certainly aren’t ever there
when I take the trash out to the bin.

I just checked the window,
but still, none are around.
I guess I won’t be finding dogs
that are not lost, but found.

Maybe next time I go outside,
I’ll just look for whatever’s there,
because perfect opportunities
are just too stinking rare.

Copyright © 2018 – Adam Light



Disorder, Disorder, my newly-found friend,
when Order finds me, our reign will end.

Judging and thinking I have not a base,
Order will swoop in and stifle my pace.

So please, Disorder, help me remember
that when freezing to death, you are my ember

and when trekking through these rigid lands
I can still create fire with my frozen hands.

That fire can roar and burn into the night
and signal old Order that we’ll be alright.


When I read a stranger’s poetry,
I often do prepare
for too much sentimentality
and more clichés than I care bare.

Rhyming words are thrown abound;
archaic words are too much seen.
The poets merely like the sound,
with little care for what they mean.

But sometimes, I’m forced to stand,
and I pace around the room,
for the poet has put heart to hand,
and deep within me their words loom.

Mine to Ponder

Thousands of movies and books
have shown me things that I’ve not seen,

but I don’t know how it all looks
away from the pages and the screen.

I look out upon the falling snow
as it paints and fluffs the village yonder

and I see it as some art to know,
with the rest still mine to ponder.


A budding peace
that I don’t know
surrounds my mind.

Thinking will cease
if I move slow
and act resigned.

If I move soon,
and think a lot,
I can evade

and be immune
to the onslaught
of peace’s aid.

And if I stay
who will I be?
And what is being?

I’ll find out today,
quite possibly;
I won’t be feeling.


If my dying words go on misunderstood,
what will they think and say of me?
I was misunderstood in life, as well,
and now forever misunderstood, I’ll be.

Words are mischievous little foxes
and so are sentences, too.
Sometimes the foxes act differently
when watched by me instead of you.

How bad can misunderstanding be,
when the understood is not that great?
It’s so easy for us to overlook degree
when we attempt to communicate.

By degree, I am a bit too cold
and my words expand in space,
but maybe when I’m dead, or old,
my meanings will align some place.

New Guitar

New guitar,
how long will we play?
Will we be together
on my final day?

A year from now
will we depart,
and give our lives
a jumping start?

Maybe you
will help me meet.
A lovely lady,
graceful and sweet.

Or maybe you’ll
help me compose.
A sterling song,
seed of a rose.

I love life
and I love you.
We are the ones
the mystics drew.

Maybe we’ll tell
a grand old tale,
about how
we set to sail

On a journey
to the now
leaving late, yet
early somehow.

New guitar,
oh, here we go.
Forever each
other we’ll know.

The beginning’s over
but life is new;
the present moment
is never through.