'You Needed to Go "

"You Needed to Go"

Greg Budig 2020

Eyes have closed. 

Dull humming fills my head. 

 I want to close down.

Life is brief. 

Death is inevitable. 

But not now, please not now.

Waiting, slowly waiting. 

Nothing prepares you. 

Wanting to sleep. 

It's just not enough. 

My eyes won't let me cry. 

I need to cry.

I hear your pain.

 I'm falling apart. 

I hate myself for feeling so 

scared, for being so weak.

I'm falling apart. 

I'm closing my eyes. 

But the children we raised 

are holding your hand.

They talk to your spirit,

surround you with love. 

And then they hold me,

and they carry my pain. 

Now is the time. 

I come back to your side. 

You said so many times

that you needed to go. 

Breathing has slowed,

now is the time. 

Somewhere in the darkness,

your spirit took flight. 

Free from the pain,

you soared to the stars. 

Holding each other, our 

grief came in tears. 

In the silence we looked upon 

your now peaceful face. 

Sweet memories began to 

rise in our hearts. 

Soon there was laughter,

we had let you go home. 

Now was the time. 

You needed to go. 

Now was the time. 

We had let you go home. 

The End 

"My Father "

"My Father "

Greg Budig 2020

I will never be my father. 

Never have been,

never will. 

He was tall, thin and regal.

Very dashing and quite fit.

I am like a pumpkin, often 

awkward, sometimes slow.

He was quiet and assuring,

I am loud and often rough. 

He could always solve a 

problem.  Fix whatever 

needed care. 

I stumble for the answers,

sometimes wondering what

to do. 

His head was filled with

knowledge, mine was 

always filled with dreams. 

He was from a generation  

that was called to go to war. 

I am from a generation 

that always asked for more. 

He owned his own business,

proudly working every day. 

I work for larger companies 

and earn only what they pay. 

No I am not my father. 

Father's Day is bittersweet,

I miss him and his laughter. 

I miss that he was capable 

of making all things right. 

And as I stumble through 

this day, assured of 

who I am. 

I will never be my father,

but I am sure that he is proud. 

The End 

"Playing With Words "

"Playing With Words"

Greg Budig 2020

Pen to paper. 

Playing with words. 

Trains of thought passing.

 Searching for the 

perfect conclusion. 

Images are so vivid yet 

cluttered with sentences,

punctuation and words...

so many words. 

Fingers tap the keyboard. 

Mind adrift. A free form

assault on literary expression.

How do you get there? Where 

is this going? Why did I write 

that? What was I thinking?

An internal voice speaks the

 words that need to be written.

Words that need to be said. 

Finding the process. 

Defining your voice. 

Sorting and sifting through 

thoughts and inspiration. 

The twist of a phrase.

Knowing when to be clever 

and being clever enough to 

know when. Always changing.

Looking for the right words. 

Reading out loud in hoarse 

muted tones. Like tasting 

each sentence as it rolls in 

your mouth.  Feeling your 

tongue speak your words in 

the dark,whispering 

sentences to unravel their 

sound. To discover their 

rhythm. To bring them to life. 

Who is the writer?

Simply someone who writes?

Listening to voices inside 

of your head. 

Pen to paper. 

Tapping on keyboards. 

Reading out loud. 

Changing and moving. 

Playing with words. 

The End 

"So Sick of the Anger "

"So Sick of the Anger"

Greg Budig  2020

So sick of the anger when 

conclusions are jumped to 

without any question 

of what just may happen 

in some way to topple 

the balance of nature in a 

 world of division that has 

quickly become so 

sick of the anger.

Misinformed anger that 

speaks of injustice that 

spreads like a virus through 

people most willing to spark 

revolution about something 

they don't know but heard 

on their cell phone and think 

they should lash out in radical 

fury from misinformed anger. 

Misdirected anger erupts 

in the darkness from people  

with passion who fight the 

oppression that's festered  

inside them and soon in the 

chaos the message is lost and 

the innocence is martyred 

by the hands of the fools 

with misdirected anger. 

The power of anger has come 

to the forefront of a nation 

divided by self serving leaders 

 refusing to acknowledge the 

cries of the many over the

wants of the few who are 

hoarding the profits of middle

 class workers who's only 

 outlet is the power of anger. 

So sick of the anger that 

jumps  to conclusions from 

misinformation that leads to 

destruction by the minds 

misdirected by a power of fury 

in the name of self passion to 

create a new order that will 

soon be abandoned until we 

are all so sick of the anger. 

The End 

"Open Windows at Night "

"Open Windows at Night"

Greg Budig  2020

Waking up in the dark.

Unsure of the time

or if I'm even awake. 

Feeling the soft brush of a 

breeze across my face

through the open 

windows at night .

I breathe in the night air.

Coolness and damp 

touch my nose.

Filling my senses and 

settling my mind. 

It smells of yesterday's 

lilacs and tomorrow's rain. 

The atmosphere murmurs 

with night sounds. 

A questioning owl, a far  

away siren. The crickets 

sing softly as tires hum on 

the pavement. Deep in the 

distance a train whistle blows. 

Silently listening,

 motionless in the darkness, 

alone with my thoughts.  My 

breathing becomes measured 

as I slip into slumber. My 

dreams have escaped out 

the open windows at night. 

The End 

"Nighthawks "

"Nighthawks"

Greg  Budig  2020

Slicing the air.

Pointed wings on 

a western twilight.

Atmospheric echoes 

of a faint distant voice.

Far above I finally see you,

white banded wings 

brushing the sky. 

The nighthawks 

cry out above you. 

"Peeeent! Peeeent!"

they exclaim. Diving 

and twisting across 

newly starred skies.

Air rich with life,

an insect buffet. 

Angled sharp wings.

Long guiding tails.

Acrobats changing 

direction at will.

 Wide gaping

mouths scooping 

 air as they feast.

Everything is alive. 

And then they dive.

Headlong, downward,

free falling into space. 

Wings cutting smoothly 

through currents of air. 

Soon pulling up, wings 

booming the atmosphere. 

Audibly bending the air.

Now they are gone. 

A different horizon 

has lured them. 

Soaring from view.

Leaving the sky 

for the bats,

the mosquitoes 

and the stars.

The End