depression

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?

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We rotten beggar-scribes

All these voices,

talking into emptiness.

And I

shouting with them,

adding my desperate plea

to the general cacophony.

I criticize

and minimize

their efforts,

but, really,

who am I,

(shouting to be heard

as well,)

to judge?

I pine for acknowledgment

every bit as much

as the most strident

of supplicant does.

It is a desperation

that reeks so strongly

that it escapes the digital void

that spawns it.

I reek of it

too.

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. 

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.