Begone
Begone, you haunting memories of deferrals, soon my blood-red knees stand proud.
I will never tell
I will never tell my loved ones
My woes and struggles with life,
The success they saw
Came at a cost; never tell
My loved ones
I produced three offspring
But not a single child; never
tell a loved one, because
There are none.
Grey Moss Grow on Ancient Trees
Grey moss grows on an ancient tree
Fattened in solitude
Beyond the reach of Humanity.
It reflects in a nearby Loch
A desire to be cut – chopped
Down into pretty pieces,
Ring by ring – year by year
The wisdom accumulated
– in risk of fading.
Lichens cling and clamber
Towards the top of the ancient tree
As it stolidly stands in attention
– pondering the coming peace.
Morning Mayhem
I comb my hair roughly.
My five skinny fingers
Carry soil under untidy nails,
Dandruff cover my shoulders
Like snow on late November days.
Old skin and old scars festering,
While I blow my trumpet
You blow my trumpet
– away,
And I comb my hair
Backwards
With lard like a loony loser
With five digits protruding
Like shovels
Fit for winter rain.
I write my own endorsements
as others never will
understand my point of view
or the struggles deep within
I sing my own hymns
from sheets I pressed and penned
not nearly divine enough – just echoes
of me seeing me being me
I will write my own obituary
on a day with a sparkling sun
where fields wave their goodbyes
and Meadowlarks lament a loss
Shallow Waters
Rain falls.
No poet blames tears
For aquaplaning quills
Making pirouettes
Over checkered pages.
Rain falls. The dance continues.
No poet ever blames the poem
For their failure,
Their stumbling steps
Over checkered pages.
Rain falls. A poet weeps. A poem drowns
– in shallow waters.
The Fruit of One’s Labour
The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured by buckets picked, nor by uniquely labelled jars stored on shelves in dark cold cellars. Fruit, like life is a dance from dawn to dusk, between birth and death becoming attractive wearing a colourful plumage while still raw and bitter at the core. The full colour only vivid at the end when the sweet scent attracts new pursuers while the rot grows inside. As dusk turn to nightmare our cycle completes, we roam the cold dark cellars in search for uniquely labelled jars yet closed. The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured in a single lifetime — nor in the coins left behind.
I’m Tired of Observing
I’m tired of observing
My arms flailing like windmills
By a drying desert
Keeping wolves at bay
While tethered truths roam free
I’m tired of observing
People pulling my last leg
By a drying desert
Tapping pockets of gold
While bleeding knees greet*
I’m tired of observing
The distant hollow
By a drying desert
Life drizzling by
With echoes of time fading
*Scots.
Fate and Cicumstance in Conversation
Fate lingered. Socks pulled high.
Circumstance sat in silence.
“Are you well, Dear Sister?”
“…”
“Would you like to —“
“No.”
“Would —“
“No.”
“Why —“
“Because apparently Jaysome IS the context. I don’t know how we fit in there, or anywhere anymore.”
“What? Who told you this?”
”The Context Critters. They came back early. Warned by some sort of Magician…”
“Doesn’t bode well…”
“No.”