"No Regrets "

"No Regrets"

Greg Budig 2020

I only wish I would have.

 Or should have maybe still.

I guess I think I could have. 

But does it really matter 

at all in the end?

In the grand scheme of 

life's strange pageantry,

it's all a game chance. 

"You should have been

an artist" I have been 

told so many times. 

Changing the world's 

perceptions. Making 

beauty where none exists. 

But I am still creating,

I am an artist after all. 

"You could have been

a writer!" again

I have been told. 

Creating stories and 

bestselling books that 

all the world adores.

Yet I write for my 

own salvation. 

I'm a writer 

just the same. 

If I only would have 

been someone famous.

I would have risen 

above it all. 

But fame is 

quickly fleeting. 

A vague idea of 

who we really are. 

We all get fifteen minutes. 

I feel I must rework this 

as I write these words 

in jumbled haste. 

I'm afraid the muse,

fueled by some 

fermented drink, 

will simply go away.

The words stream all to 

easily onto the page. 

Time is quickly fleeting. 

The time to live is now. 

I can't worry about 

what I can't control. 

What happened in 

the past is gone. 

Take each moment for 

what it is. Remember,

there are no regrets. 

The End 

"Close Your Eyes "

 

"

"Close Your Eyes"

Greg Budig 2020

Close your eyes. 

They are no 

longer needed. 

Your remaining senses 

are still open inside. 

Sounds become visual. 

Scents become images. 

Lay in the darkness 

and see. 

A train sounds it's horn 

from a far away crossing.

It's engines drone closer,

grinding steel on steel tracks. 

Red lights flash as the 

crossing arm lowers. 

Sounds become visual. 

In your mind 

you can see. 

Raindrops splatter 

on dusty dry pavement. 

The sweetness of moisture 

has scented the air. 

Breathing in deeply to

olfactory sensors. 

Scents become images. 

The rain glistens 

inside. 

To look without seeing,

hear without listening. 

and touch without 

feeling are so easy to do. 

Close your eyes in 

the darkness. 

Open up all your senses. 

Be at peace in the quiet. 

Listen to the breeze. 

The night wind rustles 

the twisted, aged maple. 

The soft breeze dances 

with it's velvet soft leaves. 

You can hear them so clearly.  

Taste the greenness of nature. 

The image becomes clearer 

in your now open mind. 

Close your eyes. 

The End 

"Cerulean Skies "

"Cerulean Skies"

Greg Budig 2020

More than blue. 

The sky is radiant. 

Deep and boundless. 

Cerulean skies. 

An atmosphere stretched. 

Flooding each horizon. 

Autumn's backdrop. 

The color of the soul. 

The leaves become crimson. 

They scream of yellow 

and amber gold. 

Swirling against the sky. 

This sacred moment. 

Autumn leaves abound. 

A perfect sky above. 

Reaching to heaven. 

I am not immune to 

this autumnal display. 

Every year it touches 

me like I've never 

seen it before. 

My eyes glaze over. 

Unable to totally 

immerse myself. 

Overcome with color. 

A fleeting moment. 

Suddenly gone. 

Lasting only for a second

in the grand scheme of time. 

The colors of autumn. 

Rich, deep and pure. 

The leaves are on fire 

against the the deep 

cerulean skies. 

The End 

"The Struggle for Words "

"The Struggle for Words "

Greg Budig 2020

Sometimes the words

struggle to be found. 

Inspiration has gone 

somewhere else.

Only seeing letters 

on an empty page. 

The voice isn't 

speaking inside. 

The somber autumn 

morning crawls at a slow 

poetic pace before me. 

But inspiration comes 

 clumsily these days. 

The voice doesn't 

reciting the words 

I want to hear. 

Life's business has 

clouded my mind. 

Distractions all around. 

Attention wavers. 

Concentration faulted. 

Unable to think. 

I struggle with 

the words. 

Writing is an exercise. 

Creating something 

from what is nothingness. 

Pondering a blade of grass,

the smell of autumn leaves,

the way the sun feels 

on my age worn face. 

Expressions of life. 

I remember what it means 

to write.  I am not about 

to just give up. 

Feeling is a way of life. 

Expression is the key. 

Suddenly warmth from 

the sun has touched me. 

I can feel each blade of grass.

The struggle for words 

still haunts me. 

My mind has been 

slowly awakened. 

Time heals all wounds 

I have heard. 

Time to slow down 

and listen. 

The End 

"Making Things "

 

"Making Things "

Greg Budig 2020

The simple act. 

Grandmother's recipe. 

Handed to you on yellowed 

paper in her own fragile 

soft pencil handwriting 

It traveled from Germany. 

Or maybe from Africa.

So many memories of 

where you once came. 

Making things. 

Planting the garden. 

Turning the soil.

Watching it grow. 

Butchering hogs .

Nothing is wasted. 

The family gathers to 

continue the ritual. 

Searching for blueberries. 

Ice cream buckets full. 

Making things. 

Boxes of jars brought 

up from the basement. 

Sterilized with rings 

and a bunch of new lids. 

The canner sits waiting,

shiny black with white 

speckles, on the 

stove top with its old 

tarnished basket inside. 

Making things. 

The sharp smell of 

vinegar and freshly 

sliced cucumbers. 

Pickling salt, onions,

garlic and dill. 

Steam from the canner 

rolls high in the kitchen. 

Pull out the jars carefully,

wait for the lids to go pop.

Making things. 

Pork shoulder chopped. 

Seasoned and mixed. 

Black pepper, salt with 

marjoram and garlic. 

Coarsely ground in 

the grinder to make 

 fresh kielbasa. 

My grandfathers used 

to do this by hand. 

Making things. 

Cleaning the casings. 

Rinse the intestines 

like water balloons.

Threaded on the horn. 

Turning the crank as

the minced meat fills 

the links tightly. 

Hung in the apple wood 

smoker for hours. 

Making things. 

Selecting the fabrics

or old family clothing. 

Cut into patterns reflecting 

the past.  Log cabin, bear 

claw, broken dishes,

nordic star. Traditional 

designs changed and 

made new.

Stretched on a frame. 

Making things. 

Hands keeping busy. 

Traditions kept alive. 

Generation to generation,

you hope they're passed 

down. The art of making 

sausage, making pickles, 

making wine. Canning 

preserves, stitching quilts,

things done by hand.

Making things. 

The End