It’s so sad
That you dried up,
Like I did on stage one night;
And your walls crumbled
And apple crumble does.
I know that your bucket has a hole in
And no-one knows how to fix it
Though they try all manner of things
They still fail.
And your rope…
’twas on the Monday morning that the-
Oh, I almost forgot, I don’t do that anymore.
That is in the past
As is everything that moves one second back from the present
And the future is coming
Seconds tick by
It is their way
They exist for a far shorter duration than the Mayfly
To one Mayfly.
Makes you think that in the
Of an eye
Moment has gone
And yet, one day does differ
So much from another;
One week apart in time
But a season also now seems to separate the two
But, a reversal of the journey
From Spring to last Autumn
When sudden showers left me sodden
And now they do again;
No, these are not the falls of Spring
That approaching April promises; but the clammy,
Cold-swamp-inducing drops of a miserable day in November.
And, yes, I still hear the woodland birds tweeting
From their lofty shelters
As they look down upon me in my ‘inappropriate’ trainers.
The breeze is not what we hear today;
A gusting wind that trembles like a thunder;
And, the clouds ‘lower’ as in Shakespeare’s third Richard
Leaving me under no impression
That the Sun will get a look in today.
Roll on the Glorious Summer.
My heart lay broken at my feet; shattered into a million myriad motes. I gazed at the wreckage of my world, and I slumped.
Before now I had been strong; a castle on the landscape; defences in readiness; and with my armies of grit and determination honed to deal with any onslaught.
Now… I was a swamp, a quicksand land where all manner of hopes and ambitions had sunk without discernible traces. No castle stood here; no defences; no armies, nothing.
I held my head down low and scanned my feet; beyond them; to the very core of the Earth; where now dwelt the ‘once had a future’ king of all my realm.
No sound pierced my hearing; no sight passed my view; no aroma tested my taste-buds – I was inert and inactive to the world.
However, the world was still turning (though no longer around me) and if any unseen people were shoring up my fallen walls, clearing strewn debris and rebuilding the foundations of a life for me… well, I would be surprised; very surprised.
Time is a healer; I needed millennia; I had wasted so much of my life that it would never seal the wounds.
But, it would always try.
Have you ever tried to put a shattered mirror back together?
That’s right; you would just wrap the shards in many layers of old newspaper and dispose of the damaged item.
And who would blame anyone for disposing of me and my shattered heart ?
The ‘Weekend’ is here;
Saturday, and then Sunday;
Make the most of them.
Not forgetting that
Friday evening also
Is part of the fun.
Feeling shattered? Write about that! G:)
Thursday, it is;
It was so before;
It shall be again;
The sequence never ends.
Though it probably will…
Possibly, on a Thursday.
Well, that was pretty cheery;
Sets us up for a right song and a dance does that poem.
It may be thought, or said,
That, perhaps, one of us got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning;
I am but pondering upon the day, today
As poets are wont to do.
That’s as maybe; but, I don’t want some old, outdated, anachronism of a poet telling me it’s going to be Apocalypse Thursday!
I use the poetic devices to show
What may be (IMO)
At the heart of a ‘possible’ Thursday In an unwritten play
Where you and I may not even exist;
Not characters on a Dramatis Personae list.
A lot of tosh and nonsense; that’s all ‘I’ have to say; so, take your quill and parchment; your blotter and your ink;
and leave me here to rest in peace; so I can hear my words to myself think
Good riddance and good day!