Too White Shoes

 

There’s this one thing
I can’t seem to do,
That’s stop looking down at
Those too white shoes.

They didn’t quite fit
On some other guy’s feet,
And were given to me
‘Cause they’re something I need.

They’re a real brand name
And look strange I suppose,
When worn with my thrift shop
And bargain store clothes.

They’re not really me
And it looks and it feels,
Like someone else’s feet
Have been attached to my heels.

Out of place they may be
But they’ll just have to do,
And I’ll make my way out
In those too white shoes.

Possibly Henry

I should probably get
A plant for my desk.

A small piece of greenery
To fill the large brown space,
Between the lamp and the stapler.

Perhaps a Jade
Or maybe a cactus.

Something sturdy that might survive
The inevitable neglect that
I will no doubt heap upon it.

It should have a nice pot,
Something subdued.

I think terracotta would compliment,
The tawny wooden surface,
Of this battered old desk.

It could sit next to the books,
That I promise I’ll finish reading.

I’d possibly name it Henry,
And speak quietly to it
While I pretend that I write.

This Tree

There it’s something appealing,
About this tree,
Though I don’t know what.

Something in its angles,
Leaning back in revulsion,
Away from the road.

Away from the place where,
The trunk forked early in its life.
Where its conjoined twin
Was removed at the base,
So as not to impede traffic.

Bone like arms,
Reach mournfully upward.
Stripped of leaves,
For the winter months.
Leaving only scraps of Spanish moss,
Clinging to its grey nakedness.

Dried seed pod husks
Hanging from long fingers,
Like brown leprous flesh.

I saw it today
Possessing a new beauty,
Unseen when in full bloom.

Glorious Morning

What a wonderful feeling,
To have woken up late,
on such a bright new day.

To have shrugged off, for just this once,  
The unreasonable demands of the clock,
And silence its scream for attention.

Having nowhere particular to be,
And no need to bend to the whims,
Of an all too practical world.

To taste your coffee once,
Then let it just cool a moment,
Before the next lazy sip.

To sit and just simply enjoy,
Even for a short time,
The warmth of wanton idleness.

Oh such glorious mornings,
You will never know
How much you are missed.

I Never Meant to Sleep

I never meant to fall asleep,
Before my work was done.

I felt so weary,
I just laid my head down,
Only for a bit.

The room was cold,
I draped the blanket about me.

My eyes burned,
My head throbbed,
I drew down the blind.

I dozed for that perfect moment,
In the warmth,
Soft and dark.
I dreamt of abundance,
A world of peace.

You threw the blinds open,
I was awake once again.

Jagged rays of midday declared,
Here still is toil,
A place full of strife.

I never meant to dream,
Before our work was done.

A Singer Must Die

“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.”

– Leonard
Cohen

Leonard Cohen died last night at the age of 82.

I found out about his death while taking a break from finishing the piece I intended to publish this morning. As a result I spent the remainder of my evening in tears, listening to his music and being a general plague to social media as I shoveled link after link of YouTube videos at my friends and acquaintances.

Needless to say this I did not finish that story.

Anyone who has spent time with me has spent time in my life over the past twenty-some-odd years knows how much this man’s music has meant to me. From the very first time I hear Everybody Knows as part of a movie soundtrack his voice and words found a way to move me. His songs led me out of my teenage angst and, later, in many ways helped me cope with the death of my parents.  He unknowingly helped me seduce more than one young woman, and then kept me company during the times following the inevitable disintegration of those relationships.

“Well never mind, we are ugly but we have the music”

– Leonard Cohen

I forced many who tried to get to know me to also get to know his music, and I like to think that regardless of whatever opinion they may currently hold about me it made a change to their listening tastes. I took to be both a duty and an honor. I know that he, along with a few other artist has influenced my writings and the horrible poetry I spew from time to time.

I won’t go into the details of his life and times, or offer up a play-by-play of his catalogue. There are others, more qualified than myself, who have already done so.

I struggle to find just one song that would sum up his genius, and it can’t be done. But do take this as a small offering and just hope, that if you are unfamiliar with him that you’ll explore his work from there.

 

And I know that there are larger issues to be upset about lately, and I’m upset about those things too. But I needed to take a short time to acknowledge the loss of this great poet who has meant so much to my life.

Rest in peace Mr. Cohen.

Photo of Leonard Cohen by Rama via Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 2.0 FR)

 

Kings and Queens

Sometimes I look back to those days,
Back to golden years not so very long ago.
When we were each kings and queens,
Our younger days before our troubles.
When we were free and unhindered,
Unshackled by the thought of consequence.
When Our faults did not matter,
Our mistakes weren’t so permanent.
Before a future to dread or a past to regret,
Only now to squander as we saw fit.
Those warm days when we still felt things deeply,
When we still loved recklessly.
Those delicious days when we were kings and queens,
When we did all else but mourn.

The Volunteer

As I walked along the sidewalk I saw the flower,

a volunteer growing up through a crack.

It looked upward in defiance,

refusing to wither and give in.

Stem awkwardly long and twisted,

pale leaves outstretched straining for the sun.

Its petals bruised by a thousand footsteps,

stained and choked by exhaust.

Forced to thrive in unpleasantness,

just because of the way the wind had blown.

Prompt

Image Credit: Flower in a sidewalk crack by Fuzzy Gerdes via flikr CC BY 2.0

Washing Away

The rain has come and the rain has gone,
Washing away all the joys of the world.
The playground is sodden and filthy,
Sad little children shuffle past.
Heads down, glancing sideways.
Their laughter will unsung this day.
They march on towards homework,
That Great executioner of youthful glee.

The rain has come and the rain has gone,
Washing away all the joys of the world.
The old dog mopes at the window,
Lonely and fearful of distant thunder.
The days walk had been abandoned.
Now she can only lay here waiting,
And hoping,
The child will come home soon.

 

 

 

Happy Monday

 

 

The Morning Coffee Comes Late Today

The morning coffee comes late today,
Gone are dregs from night before.
The child awoke in sluggish fasion,
Two bowls of cereal and asks for more.

The morning coffee comes late today,
Kid to dress and bag to pack.
Out of time and out the door,
Sadly it is the caffeine I lack.

The morning coffee comes late today.
We hurry our way down the street.
To a morning finess group,
Cause she’s got some friends to meet.

The morning coffee comes late today,
Back home still no time to brew.
I plot my errands on city bus,
Oh there’s just to much shit to do.

The morning coffee comes late today,
Book store trip, then a groceries buy.
I’ve lost all patience with mankind,
And just then bagel shop I spy.

The morning coffee comes late today,
The line is long I’ll have to say.
Place the order,
The five bucks I pay.

The morning coffee comes late today,
Cardboard cup contains house blend.
I sit and sip,
My shakes now end.

Happy Monday!