Month: December 2017

My boy

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.

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The fog of the nog

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!

Remember unto thee, this

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….

One – size fits all

“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.

One – size fits all

“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.

Revealed in frost

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?