What is in a post?

Bits and bytes, numbers
1's and 0's in the phone lines, streaking
Making up these words from my fingers
Does it really matter?

Is my prestiege greater, or my word heavier?
Does this add to my accomplishments?
Is every post a worthy attachment to my name?
Does it really matter?

I've spoken of sillyness and seriousness
Of Fallout and of Fan Fictions
Of Poetry and of Politics
Does it really matter?

I've done this a thousand times now
Quite literally, see my post count!
Not that it means much, even to me....

Does it really matter?

Me

I search for words that describe me.
Who I think I am,
Who I want for you to see.
My hair is brown.
My eyes are brown.
Though I put blonde streaks in my hair,
And my eyes sometimes turn red.
I am short,
Petite,
Small.
I have no real talents,
Though I love to try new things.
I play baseball; I am new at it.
My legs and hands are bruised.
I look years younger than my age.
I love sushi.
I love chocolate.
Needles make me faint.
Puppies make me smile.
I am a mother.
I am a wife.
I am me.

Hands may hold and embrace,
As surely as they beat or batter,
But hate is easier than love.

Hands may form and build,
as surely as they can destroy,
But it is easier to kill than to create.

Hands do not question the unspeakable.
Mute. Willing. Standard Issue.
Hands are the scapegoat of the mind.

Remembered
To the woman who raised me,
the lady who made me who I am,
You are here forever,
You will never leave.

To the one who cared for me when I was ill,
and the one who comforted me when I was sad,
Thank you for letting me be part of your life.

To the best grandmother, and friend I ever had.
We were, and forever will be
a part of each other.

I will never forget you
I will always remember.
I will always love you.

Steven.

Fanny Lily Hampson 19-7-1902 - 11-1-2002.
Rest

The January Poem

Lit From Above
The bright moon overhead
watching, gliding.
My love, among black oaks
Intently striding.
As a whisper to my arms
two velvet hearts colliding.

What Are We Now?

What are we now
One year past
Picking up pieces
In the aftermath?

What are we now
In the treacherous wake
Of one heart broken
And another at stake?

What are we now
In a silence so loud
I can call out your name
Without making a sound?

What are we now
When the promise of change
Still eludes us
Like a target out of range?

What are we now
Still feeling the pain
Of wounds turned to scars
That will always remain?

And first time I have actually USED that title...

 For New Years, may I have your attention?
On this subject, I shall brook no dissension
I shall make it quite clear
That for New year's this year
My resolutions contain NO abstention
For though you may think it pretension
I gave up all vice
And some think I'm quite nice
Or is that just senile dementia?

BEAT THAT! A DOUBLE OVERLAPPING LIMERICK!