MotherMother5:39 P.M. and its time for another one of thoseInterruptions; I dont know, maybe I was working too hard, too steadily, too quietly,Or you were tired of leafing through worthless mail: sale bulletins, Dunkin Donuts coupons,The garish Costco ads just screaming to be noticed (Waste of paper!),And running chafed hands through blow-dried, dyed hair,Uttering little murmurs of dissatisfaction like you always do, so goddamn predicable.It begins. What are you doing? If I sit very still and pretend you dont existWill you do me that favor? No, youve already left your indelibleHandprint on my often-battered spirit, might as well hang on a few more yearsTo dole out more bruises and cuts and if youre lucky, a really deep gash will scar.Wouldnt that be lovely? Though I am well-trained in the art of silence,Often mistaken for contempt or reservation, dont surrender, mother dearest!You alone possess t
The LastI am the last.Where once a blanket of green was, now lay a grave of blackish-brown stubs the footprints of my brothers and sisters.I am the last.The sun rises and peers down on me, its rays dancing upon my arms, filling my veins with warmth, with life.I am the last.They came with great noise, with their plundering tools of metal and giant grunting trolls of pets that roared like the sea and coughed like an erupting volcano.In the distance, I can see other trees, too. They are taller than I am, grown from grey skeletons and leaved with curtains that shine like the surface of the stillest lake. They do not have my beautiful green leaves, or cocoa-coloured skin. They do not speak my language. They do not speak at all.I am the last.The rain that drenches my body burns. It is not like the rain I used to know. However, my toes sink into it, and I drink from it. It is the only rain I know now.Puddles form upon the grave I have been destined to watch over. I catch glimpses of m
Two Ways of LifeYoull live your life runningSaid the mouse to his children.For many a lifes livedIn ending our own.With mouths full of thunderAnd paws that grow thorns,Never, no neverWill they leave us alone.Youll live your life runningSaid the cat to her children.Our prey dont just sprout upAnd drop at our feet.In scent or in soundThe best are betrayed.If we dont out-pace themThere is no hope or meat.With one mornings hungerThe mouse left his children.While four kittens waitedFor their mothers return.The young mice stayed lonely,And the kittens weren't hungry.In life and in deathDid the two families learn.
Blessed are those who mournDeathshrinksa man:in the lifetimeof a moment,he is gonefrom manto woodto ash.In greeting Deathhe says farewellto all the worldly sighsand all the worldly sightsthat once he might enjoy.'Tis passing strangethat what he leaves behindnever says goodbyeto all its full extent.How we him rememberis up to time,divided mindsthe price of tinted glass.
MasksAKA Love Poem for a Damp Bank Holiday MondayThey meet in the ballroom to dance,Anticipation floats through the air,Torchlight enflames the romance,The decor, so tasteful, so fair,We're in a grey Newcastle-under-Lyme market,Sheltering in a closed Woolworth's doorway until the rain lets up,This doesn't look like it'll happen anytime soon,It's really pissing it down.The princess, teasingly masked,Grand Mistress of all she surveys,Tempting curves; wine finely casked,Beauty ready to conquer and daze,You are quite good looking,Admittedly not much in the chest department,You seem to mind far more than I do though,I've always found breasts a bit of an over-rated body part anyway,Of course I have to be very diplomatic when discussing this with you.The prince leads his girl through the throng,One day he'll lead her to the throne,Handsome and brave, gentle but strong,The princess has his heart to her own,Hmm...granted, I'm no Brad Pi
FriendlessThere's a little boy who walks to school,Nobody knows his name.No matter what he tries to do,It is always the same.He keeps up with all the trends,He knows them inside out.Each one he pulls off perfectly,Even that selfie-photo pout.Each week he brings a box of muffins,Though nobody knows why.He used to try and hand them out,Now he doesn't even try.He shares the muffins with the crowsand eats them one by one.For consuming that much sugar,He sure looks miserable when he's done.He looks down at the empty boxand you see a little smile.The crows fly off and he lies down;They'll all be full for quite a while.The same routine, every week,I think so that he can pretend,That in the year that he's been here,He's made at least one friend.©lonewolfpuppy