Sandra Lisacki Woburn High School Class of 1964

Remembering Sandra Lisacki today
and how beautiful she looked
back in high school gracing the corridors
with her stunning and exotic looks,
holding her books in her arms,
looking so amazingly lovely.
Her beautiful brown eyes
and black hair left me practically breathless.

Alas, I wish I could have met her in person
and been lucky enough to have gone out with her.
I wish I could have been that blessed.
Instead I never approached her,
never got to know her.

Perhaps feeling unworthy of her.
And asking her out might have been
as futile as an undeserving mortal
asking out a heavenly goddess.

And back then to me she was
like a goddess, and I will never forget
how incomparably beautiful she looked
in the Woburn High Class of 1964.
I hope she is still alive. She’d be 78
now I think. I hope she had a happy life.

Bob Boyd

Author: BobBoyd

Age 80. Cancer survivor since 3 years ago. Work out 3 times a week. Ride my exercise bike 2 hours a day. Live a solo reclusive life. Retired a year ago from working with the elderly in a nonprofit. Started writing poetry a little over a year ago; most poems I write are fictional but some are not. Spiritual with a permanent spiritual experience. Write poems on many subjects. Always researching for many of my poems and because of my unquenchable thirst for knowledge. After reading and hearing about many near death experiences and death bed visions, I believe death is the ultimate awakening and the relocation of a lifetime. You may believe differently, but you have the right to be wrong -- I'm just messing with you. :-) View all posts by BobBoyd

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Enlightenment

White Light illuminates the darkness of the inner night.
To mystics common fare, to others never there.
One in whom the sun never sets sees it everywhere.

Bob Boyd

What Matters to Me

I don’t care how rich you are.
Riches mean nothing to me.
I don’t care how degreed you are.
You might think you’re better than me.
I don’t care how successful and important you are.
You might be too self-centered and have no time for me.
I do care about how humble, compassionate, and kind you are.
Those are the things that matter to me.

Bob Boyd

Heaven’s Hope

I cannot imagine 
a woman 
or a man
psychopath born
psychopath dead
cast into the
fires of Hell
by a loving
reasonable God.

If you believe
I’m wrong,
how can you 
account for a
God who’d send
a psychopath
into the world
without heaven’s hope? 

Bob Boyd

My Love

There are mystics 
who say love is the way
to total liberation,
becoming one with God and 
getting off the wheel of rebirth, 
living forever in eternal bliss. 

I love the thought of that. 
I’d love to be one with God
and get off the wheel of rebirth
and live forever in eternal bliss.
But, honestly, my love, 
I’d rather stay on the wheel 
and keep coming back to this life,
forever ... in love with you.  

Bob Boyd

Pink Dogwood Tree Petals

In the yard across the street
Pink dogwood tree petals are falling,
Ordinary, a beautiful sight.
Tonight they sadden me
Remembering the last time I saw them
When you said you were leaving me.
Now like the pink tree petals,
Tears are falling from my eyes.

Bob Boyd

I'm in Love With a Witch

I don’t care if she is a witch
My pulse reaches a frantic pitch
When She looks into my stunned eyes
And her love above all I prize.

I don’t care if she casts a spell
That could send us both to hell.
For her love, I’d even go there,
For her love, I’d go anywhere.

Bob Boyd

Before the Big Bang

I loved you before the Big Bang
When the universe was born
Before the planets spun in
Vast galaxies 
Before the stars rose in
Night skies
And I know we are
Destined to be 
Reunited soulmates
In this life 
Or the next
This existence
Or the heavens

Bob Boyd

Terminal Zen Sickness

He studied Zen Buddhism.
Practiced zazen every day.
Chanted sutras every night.
Began meditating too much,
Addicted to the daily highs.
Developed Zen sickness
And lost his mortal mind.
Now imprisoned in an
Asylum for the insane.
Walks like a zombie,
His eyes forever glazed,
And mumbles fragments of sutras 
Inside his disordered head. 

Bob Boyd

Skylark

A skylark sings songs while it flies
I wonder what it’s singing about
Maybe the fun and the freedom
Of flying so high in the open free sky
Above the earth liberated from gravity
Above the planet’s cares and concerns
Maybe the skylark gets high when it flies
An intoxicating rush among billowing clouds
I’d like to feel what the skylark feels in flight
And sing like it high in the open free sky   

Bob Boyd

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