Guestbook © 2002 Tim Karwoski

While recently surfing a website,
One where Vets and their families do roam,
I clicked on the guestbook button to read,
Some entries that surely hit home.

Many seek personal data,
Of a loved one or friend who is gone,
They all want to know what happened to them,
"Did you know him, did you know him in Nam?"

Some who ask are younger than I,
And some who ask are now old,
Some who ask never knew their fathers,
Some searching for stories untold.

"Hey, did you happen to know my dad?
With him did you happen to serve?
If you did, please write. Please write to me,
There’s more of him that I’d like to learn."

They post entries about buddies,
Former shipmates and C/O’s,
"Has anyone seen or heard from them?
I’d really, really like to know."

They write looking for a connection,
Icons of no particular tone,
Or simply to say to their fellow vets,
"Hey, fellas. Welcome Home."

(I was inspired to write this after visiting the site of an
association to which I belong. http://www.mrfa.org)

Nine men working;
Way down below.
Nine men working;
Mining for coal.

This day like all others;
Or so they thought.
This day would be one;
One filled with fraught.

Working as usual;
Mining the ore.
When the drill punched through;
The mine next door.

In rushed the water;
Cold and fast.
The miners all thought;
They'd breathed their last.

Those above them;
Knew their fate.
They had to work fast;
No time to waste.

First they drilled down;
To supply some air.
To compress the water;
And hold it there.

The nine were not sure;
Of their impending fate.
So they wrote to their loved ones;
Before it was too late.

Not wanting to be seperated;
During this horrible test.
They tied themselves together;
This is brotherhood at it's best.

The workers above;
Worked hard and fast.
Finally reaching the nine;
Finally at last.

Up came the men;
One through nine;
Covered in coal dust;
From that ill-fated mine.

Were it not for the saviors;
Who toiled 77 hours.
A different story would be told;
One of wreaths and of flowers.

Tears were shed;
Thanks was given.
By all who were saved;
All of them livin'.

Nine for nine;
The final count.
Nine men went in;
And nine men came out.
(Inspired by the Pennsylvania mining accident.)

The Forgotten Vet © 2001 Tim Karwoski

See the man walking down the street
He’s got no shoes upon his feet.
His hair is shaggy and his clothes are nearly shot.

He’s pushing a cart and draggin’ his feet
Shuffling aimlessly down the street.
He’s got something to show for everything he ain’t got.

Is he legit or pulling a scam?
He states he’s a vet of Vietnam.

He stands on the corner holding a sign
Silently begging one more time.
With hopes to score a little cash
So his next meal won’t come from a restaurants trash.

All the people who pass him by
Try not to look him in the eye.
They all think that he is there by choice
Because he only represents the minorities voice.

If you see a man on the street
You can surely bet it’s his regular beat.
After all, who would really want to live
Surviving on what his fellow man gives?

No job, no family, no children or wife
Just a daily dose of suffering strife.
Standing on the corner with no shoes upon his feet.
Only asking for a little something to eat.

Why is it so hard for all of us to give
A simple token of kindness
To someone on the skids?

Is it that we don’t really don’t give a damn
About our forgotten veterans of Vietnam?
(This came to me one day as I exited the freeway and saw a vet begging along side the road.)

Ride to Work/Work to Ride © 2001 Tim Karwoski

The smell of onion fields
The sight of tall corn;
Growing along the roadside
On a warm Summers morn.

With the wind in my face
And the sun at my back;
I give the throttle a twist
And I'm off in a snap!.

As I go riding
Free as the breeze;
I pass some cars
And some pass me.

Most times I can smell it
Before I can see;
The remnants of road kill
passing 'neath me!

It could be a dog, a cat or a skunk;
But it surely will be
Some strange smelling funk!

Then there's the train
Approaching from the rear;
Blasting his horn
Piercing my ears.

Just as that happens
It scares me to death;
It takes a 1/4 mile
For me to catch my breath!

This is how it goes
With my daily commute;
Riding aboard my trustworthy scoot.

Now, some may argue
That my way is not best;
Riding to work
In a black leather vest.

To those who seek comfort
Within their metal cages;
I can assure you my way
Has been accepted for ages.

Remember the cowboys?
They rode with the wind.
Braving the elements;
Finding strength from within.

I ride not for approval
Or to pass a test;
I simply ride because
It's simply the best!

Please do not judge
By the way I may look;
There are many in suits
Who are court proven crooks!

There's only one way to end
This little ditty of wit...
"If you ain't riding Harley,
you ain't riding S__T!"
(Most of this actually occurred while riding to work!)