Just Another Job

Place of memories and laughter.

Now the wind’s home.

Someone’s pride,

a dream come true,

soon just another job:

A bulldozer driver’s paycheck.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

Empty

I would rid myself of you:

empty head

empty heart

empty veins

Bloodless, cold as granite,

and as fearless.

But flesh is fragile,

mind is weak.

Resolutions made

at noontime

will come to naught

before the sun goes down.

No names for what I feel.

No words can give it weight.

But still I try to chart this out

make a table:

write a list

draw a map to guide me

through the howling darkness

to a place

where no vestigial ghosts

of memory

rob my soul.

Oh do not think of me

nor speak my name,

lest I come come full circle

and love you once again.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Devolve

Now we all evolve,

devolve,

transform into
the Other.

Looking high,

seeking low,

water finds its level.

(eventually)

Oh, don’t stand there

adjudicating

calculating

feigning innocence

you’ve never known.

Sober as a judge.

Judge me not.

Judge my words

(not deeds)

for though my actions fail me,

and reach exceeds my grasp

and efforts sometimes come to naught,

my words reveal
what’s true.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Folly

I know it to be folly,

but I won't stop.

When memories

don’t match mirrors,

science steps in

(as if on cue).

No need to act all saintly.

You’re wrestled with this demon,

chose a different track.

Feigned happiness.

Put on airs.

Said you’d never do as me,

but it’s an act,

a jealous thing,

mired in empty fears

and poverty.

Bones grow brittle,

faces crack,

and all that’s left

are tightly held beliefs

we once thought truth,

now shattered,

scattered

like pebbles on a riverbank

with time's river rushing by.

There are no angels here,

and vanity cannot save us.

But it will make the descent

a little prettier.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2 and The Sunday Whirl.

Cornucopia

A glass half full,

but we want more.

Who says when it’s too much?

Fleece your neighbor.

Fill your plate.

Crowd your life to bursting.

There’s always room for another.

What values have we instilled

with our abundance?

All wound up with expectations,

drunk and stumbling
through the funhouse.

Tumble down

without a sound.

(No one wants to listen, anyway.)

It’s all a farce, you know.

So put on your glad rags

and clown shoes,

emit your happy cries

and cheer along with the others.

Refuse to see.

With our cravings we seal our fate.

We need to begin again.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2 and The Sunday Whirl.

Ideation

I would extend a hand,

but you would pull me under.

Drown with you.

Die with you.

Take me to deep places

and make me measure hours

by the ticking of a doomsday clock:

End of time.

Out of rhyme.

Oh we are in a state, my friend.

Race to the bottom.

Race against time.

Patrons, a host of demons

who spread a bitter feast

where we dine upon delusion

and nibble tender mercies

salted with madness.

Fight your way out.
Fly away home,
but mud still clings to your wings,
pulling you back. 
We can't all get out alive.

Now I spend my days

under a cloud of I know why.

But still I understand,

and I say with all humility:

I have not sinned.

There can be no rescue

for those who wish to drown.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings 2.