depression

Sundays…… and so on

Some great songs

from 30 years ago

(thanks prime)

and my mind reels 

at the conversion

from youth

to ruin…

 …well,

drama aside, 

it feels that sudden. 

Yesterday I popped

that singular cassette

into my dumpy car 

(a car more loved 

than any “far-better” car

I have owned since) 

and watched the world

reveal itself  to me

while inviting me

to the glories of a youth

unfolding. 

Today…

well, 

my four-year-old seems intrigued

by the music

of yesterday. 

Old…

or older…

It sucks,

and the perspective gained

goes ignored. 

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Drizzle

I really like the changing of the seasons.

I realize,

however,

some people seem truly bothered 

by periods of excessive rain 

and grey. 

I am not amongst them. 

I find myself perplexed, 

maybe even a little bit surprised, 

to hear of people 

seeking warmer climes,

to avoid 

the mid-winter dulls. 

I welcome 

all that the seasons 

have-to-offer. 

I know the sun will come;

I know the days will turn bright 

and warm. 

How much harm is it to wait? 

Without this cycle 

to keep us engaged 

what would our world be? 

Come on, rain, 

give me your worst. 

It is only the first week of March, 

and I am ready 

for the best winter has left. 

How else will I know, 

the joys of spring 

and summer?

Joy

I get older, 

(and it’s insidious)

and I find that

the holidays

slip further

and further

from my grasp. 

All the traditions,

the narratives of my youth,

traipse before me

like a parade

of mockeries

designed to fasten me 

to a world

that no longer

exists. 

I bathe in these motifs,

even as I puzzle

how to manifest them

for my son. 

I don’t know…

maybe it’s a few too many beers,

(and melancholy loves a buzz)

but I get wistful and jealous

of these ghosts that haunt me.

It’s Christmas

and I’m reaching out

to snatch at its foggy edges

and draw back to me

some semblance

of place. 

It is not caring

I would say
that I’m fading
but
that’s not true.
I am stiffening.
I am becoming
a statue…
not even in monument
to any former self,
or glory,
but to my current malaise;
this frozen-form
that mars me.
Nothing feels worth anything,
besides the obvious needs
and my immediate blood,
it’s just an open void
stretching out ahead
and being approached
at a snails pace. 

The reason

Christmas always brings
a strange mix of joy
and melancholy.
Early in the season
I anticipate,
and look forward,
with fondness
and warmth.
As the weeks before
become just days
I find apprehension.
The mood is one
of having let someone down.
I need no gifts,
and the saturation of family
is often too much.
I look,
then,
to the unfiltered joy
in my little boy’s eyes
and see solace.
His enthusiasm is honest,
and unaltered
by the burdens of adulthood.
He has a fervent desperation
for each twinkling light,
each sighting of, “Santa!”
He has returned to me
the unjaded perspective
of the season,
he holds up a mirror
to my prior joy
and shows me
what I had forgotten…
so now Christmas
can be Christmas
once again.