The flock flew lovely, white and fast,
a family departing for the winter,
and from the ground not one can tell
apart the undistinguished members.
But trailed behind a distant loner,
its flapping slow, exhausted,
and if I could implore it speak,
I would ask what had caused this.
Were you, dear friend, on tired wings,
attending to an injury?
If so how put behind your fate
by the indifferent family.
Or were you ostracized?
An outcast seeking their affection,
how cold must winter currents flow
beyond a flock’s protection.
No answer did return
from the lone bird exiled,
and the undistinguished flock flew on
from the hopeful in denial.
A bit different. An idea almost there, but not quite right (yet). Flying solo would be preferable to some, but for those who lost their flock…
My sleep won’t last the night,
a life traded from both ends —
enslaved to what producing
that false achieving understands,
with promises for changing
made habitual by the week,
but not an ounce more slumber
was had before defeat.
A bit silly, but a testament of the times we’re living in I suppose.
Enclosed, the stories stirred
and winter loves are whispered,
with lips now tight and cheeks in red
as guessing games went further.
Giddy, hours passed between
as friends indulged in teasing,
yet hopeful all the same
that another joins next season.
It has been a rather unproductive day, but a good time to be had nonetheless. As always, it’s nice when the heart is in the mood for light-writing.
Boys don’t cry, not at all.
We just take our punches
to the gut and drop,
make faces, vaguely cursing
at life’s unfairness till, exhausted,
resign ourselves that mostly,
nobody really cares.
Boys are tough, roughed up
like an unpolished diamond,
so tired of it all, of being mined
for all our worth,
but half accepting it anyways,
because the narrative
makes us strong,
the strength to uphold at least
twice our weight despite fatigue.
It’s hard to sleep on it,
being so tough and all.
Aging must be graceful too,
with stoic faces hardly wrinkled
by distress, now if only heart
would not tremor from
toughened blood and tears unshed.
Something a little different, if not all too familiar. There is something cathartic about the experience of seeing how we shape society – of grasping that unjust expectations set forth for us all. Progress will come, surely? Funny how forged has two meanings, and I did not even connect it till just now…
I am on some days weak,
a leaf at autumn’s mercy,
instilled with too much doubt
if I am worthy.
But winds that scatter leaves,
though gone the stable branch,
can just as much bring freedom
to brave the world again.
And even when the weighty snow
at last engulf the hearty,
the leaf, adventured now,
can lie at rest in victory.
Not the best, but it will do for 4 AM. Small victories…if that’s the hand we get, that’s the hand we play. Why is it when I see life as a game, it makes life so much more interesting? Perhaps that’s the lost trick to adulthood.
No heartbreak, Love,
the night’s too young,
and we shall have ourselves
the moon and stars
before the gaudy day
bid our adventure done.
Nothing less, Love,
than nibbled lips
and neck perfumed,
that memory finds
a longing to return.
The optimism is strong with this one. And why not. If happiness does not come from ourselves, then where else can we find it?
I dream of you too often
to justify malaise,
yet in wanting, must give in
to chances gone
in long past dates,
for never did time stall
throughout recorded ages
until confession spills
from lips uncourageous.
As Twain had noted, we always seem to regret more what we didn’t do than what we did do. In achievements, all I see are missed opportunities…sigh.
Stay strong in bearing hurt!
For it too cannot last —
I’ve heard that said to me
how many times now past.
They did not lie, those wise,
who likewise treaded onward,
but sometimes wounded toes
can stutter one’s steps forward.
What an interesting day it has been. To sleep I go now, however hesitantly.
If I only knew I’d missed you such,
as dreams would come gently rolling in
like waves against a beachside, sunny,
a dreaming brain succumbing to the sins
of too long lingering in a plot line
never again destined to begin.
No, never again will I get to hold you,
to whisper words of warmth, or breathe
the lavender fragrances forever fresh in mind
as you were held beside, the rain
so gently tapping on the window pane,
our goodnight lullaby.
Yes, those sweetheart days, forever passed,
and that’s okay — what life and time
rush forward, a moment’s peace of memory
bids a lover stay.
I must be at that awesome level of sleep loss where words flow easy and freely. Or perhaps the tired mind’s inhibition is down, and its voice speaks truest. All caught up now, so no excuses but to get school work done tomorrow.
Too few the minutes resting here,
too few those minutes spent beside
before the ever timely buzz
in the morning bids us rise.
Too long the hours till then,
too long our daily call-to-arms
until sleep grants us shelter,
embraced in cuddle, safe and warm.
A little cheese to go with the sleep deprivation, but sometimes simple is loveliest.