My Lucky Star

There’s no more band-aid under my eye

And the pain has been gone for quite a while.

But I still wear my hair over my face

To hide the dark spots that stubbornly stay.

I can think of this as a tragedy –

Woe from a God that does not like me.

What with other pains at this time of rue –

A swell on my foot and a hamstring that is strained.

I missed some matches of a game I love to play

While my love’s been in Mars and in Venus I stayed.

I choose not to dwell on anger and despair,

But thank my lucky star for the God who cares.

I fell off my bicycle on an empty road side,

Skidded on the gravel and my helmet served me fine.

I suffered no damages besides bruised and scraped skin.

My God smiled on me and protected me well.

The darkened spots are a small price to pay

To have no broken bones and no hospital stay.

I count my blessings each day that I live,

For life is good even when curved balls came.

One Hundred Days

It is almost one hundred days

Since you’ve gone to your place of peace,

The promising place where you were to rest

From all the earthly sorrow and pain.

Did you find the peace you sought,

Are you free from heartache and woe,

Do you have any regrets,

What words of wisdom would you name?

I’ve never stopped thinking of you

And the love you had given me.

I often relive the old memories

Of times together we spent on our earthly trip.

There are moments when I feel your presence

Like when my poinsettias bloomed red,

Or the time my bicycle failed me

The helmet cracked and my bones stayed intact.

When I have muscle cramps after a game,

I imagine you tell me to drink up.

You are the angel who watches

Over me as I journey on my earthly stay.

Today you are remembered

By the people who love you the best.

Your family and close friends gather

In Irvine the city that holds your address.

As I sit here in Virginia,

All alone on my reading sofa,

My thoughts go to California;

Though not in person, I am there in spirit.

I wonder what dreams are made of,

For I wish the last one hundred days were but one.

When I wake up tomorrow,

This poem had not been written – not a single stanza.