Such a euphoria
this moment,
my son,
desperate for sleep,
but unable…
or unwilling…
to embrace it.
We await
the inevitable nature
of sleep.
And then
he tugs
at my arm,
like a blanket…
such joy!
I lie, as if pretending sleep,
but I must hold back
my emotions
over this small gesture;
he is a trial,
at times,
but then, as it is now,
he is so much more…
… a reward.
Stinking from drinking
(a night on the sauce)
I sat near the fire
to spy the red-suited boss.
Winking (mostly blinking)
I gazed through my fog
and hoisted a toast
to the last fire log.
My thinking was kinking
as I knocked back a quaf
should I mix another
or had I had enough?
The linking of rhymes
was getting harder, I thought.
Is that sleighbells I hear?
I guess I ought not.
Merry Christmas!
The lights,
they twinkle,
they shine,
they enchant….
The music, it entraps,
confines and reminds:
this is the season
that we reconnect
(whether by need,
desire
or familial force)
with our past….
Embrace and engage this thing,
even if it stings,
because, as sunsets lengthen,
you will certainly recall
only these tiny moments
that once brought
anxiety,
but now carry forth
the burden
of melancholy
and nostalgia,
joy and cheer…
the holidays….
It’s easy to have
no regrets
when
you never cared
in the first place.
“Merry Christmas,
Good bless you, ”
the bell – ringer said.
I nodded, and continued on,
taking his blessing with me,
like a shawl
to wear against the worst
the world may offer.
I had no change
for the kettle,
but I wore the blessing
nevertheless.
“Merry Christmas,
Good bless you, ”
the bell – ringer said.
I nodded, and continued on,
taking his blessing with me,
like a shawl
to wear against the worst
the world may offer.
I had no change
for the kettle,
but I wore the blessing
nevertheless.
I’d let my mind wander
to the times that were
but I’d be afraid
of what’s in my mind.
I’d discover
all the flaws,
and the frauds,
that I have become
in the ruins
that I would find.
I’d rather wander
in the dark
always unaware,
unashamed
in the naivete
of the here-and-now
(buried like some pained
expression pulled from my face).
Now every winter
melancholy,
like leaves left on the tree
stands out, in stark contrast,
like all the things
I promised I would be.
I’ll say it doesn’t matter,
that out on the horizon
is some solution,
but I know it’s not of my making
and that there’s simply
no truth in it.
Later, with winter settled-in,
and used to this malaise
I’ll cast my thoughts forward
once again
to the promise of Future Days.
I’ll let this placate me,
take me somewhere soft
and nice
and I’ll pretend I’ve set
a plan in place…
wouldn’t that be nice?
Ink (flows, stains). 