They’re generous and kind.
They’re nagging and needy.
They’ll give ‘til they’re empty.
They cling and control.
But if I need them, I can call them.
If I’m in trouble, they’ll come.
They’re wonderful and awful,
And I love every one.
First, the fog
Not drifting but drenched,
Weighting down thoughts
In a clinging web of thick paste.
Then, the wind burns through
A sizzling fire of a quick fuse
That sears the glue into rubber
Or maybe flubber – thoughts
So energized that they bounce
In erratic scatters of showers:
A constant, bubbling babble.
Too soon, the heat is gone,
But the once energetic balls
Are left scorched and jammed,
Hard and unmoving, into the
Walls, floor, ceiling, and void.
Around them, the murk is so
Thick it should be an ocean of
Flickering fish, but no such luck.
Movement is slow, laborious,
Haphazard, and hazardous.
Until at last, it simply
Stops completely.
All bow before the gods,
Their platters gleaming, steaming, teeming
With meats and sweets – delectable treats
Of cheeses and creams:
Bestowing tasty dreams for those
Who worship and believe.
Hi, everyone!
I’ll be working unusual hours this week due to the holiday, so I may have to write for twytte on my lunch break or something. At worst, I’ll end up doing it when I get home.
The long and the short of it is that if you log on at your usual time, don’t be surprised if I haven’t posted anything new yet. Don’t worry – the posts may be late, but they’ll get there. I promise!
O, boldest, brightest, most courageous words,
You go beyond the norm, beyond polite
While reaching straight to points (profound, absurd):
So great your potential for verbal might.
So crisp and clean and consonant – so short
Yet strong in your economy and thrift
And ready for endless adaptation:
Fear, shock, or anger in one brief retort.
Revealing emotions – your greatest gift –
Makes you, forbidden, such a temptation.
The dawn reveals the battered exterior,
Worn but enduring.
Lovingly and harshly displayed,
Each worn corner continues to stand,
The crumbles and cracks bared proudly.
Careful patches show their wear as
The light shines through the thin fabric.
The patches have patches; the joints are repaired.
It’s held together by string, glue, and will,
Unveiled in each stitch, seam, and nail.
How much of the original is even there?
It’s the huge knot in the back of the throat
That can’t be seen or measured or touched,
But it steals your breath and stops your speech,
Blocking all passage through – up or down –
Except the gasps and convulsive sobs that
Burst through it no matter how you try to stop them.
It dams the ducts that hold in tears until they
Build up into a throbbing pressure behind the eyes.
Unable to escape down, inside, the flood overflows,
But the pressure remains, and the knot grows
And with it, that choking sensation that
Forbids the passage of anything but grief.
