Sunday

Ducks

Seven

Calm, floating

A mom and a dad, 

Five little ducklings

Enjoying a nice day

Both the sky and water

A refreshing blue

Wind through the reeds,

Nature's song

Softly

Plays

Another Day

I wake up
Shaking and sweating
Frantically scrambling until
I come to awareness.
I calm...

Just enough. 

I dress, down some joe
And get the kids off to school,
The caffeine and fast pace
Hide my jitters...

Just enough....

I get to work, and right away
Find myself in another ridiculous talk
Not even worthy of an email
But somehow worthy of my life
I try to tune most of it out,
But if asked about it, I'll recall it

Just enough...

The phone vibrates
I know it's them. 
I know I'm late,
and that they'll keep calling
Until I can pay them the minimum
Which is always so much.
I'll beg for an extension
They'll give me a few days
If I promise that I will actually pay them

Just enough...

After work, I go to the market. 
Eggs, flour, milk.
Nothing fancy,  just the basics.
We cant eat like kings,
But with my wife's skills, it will last...

Just enough

At the counter I see a sale:
Chocolates for the kids.
I feel bad, and want to get them some,
I double check my wallet...

Just enough. 

Home, we relax a little,
The older kids play on their devices
The toddler throws his duck in the air
It doesn't fly too high,

Just enough. 

My wife feeds everyone else first,
I feign not being hungry.
Everyone eats their fill,
So I see what's left...

Just enough. 

The night settles in,
And the kids settle down.
We go to bed, 
And after a kiss goodnight,
I pray to the Gods for blessing me with

Just enough.

Who else am I going to vote for?

Would you have me vote for the Vice-Traitor?
The half-crazed Hyena, yukking it up
While Americans struggle? I hate her.
That mad cackler makes me want to spit up
Unable to answer simple questions,
without babbling about this or that
going in all different directions
Her middle-class birth story falling flat,
not that I’m keen to listen to her lies
but to be informed, I must suffer through
in which the whole time I am agonized
by her words, her laugh, and falsehoods she spews.  
Only Trump can spare us from her Encore
So, Who else am I supposed to vote for? 

Butterscotch

 

He licked himself raw, and it happened in cycles
Growing bloody,
Oozy and seeping,
before miraculously healing
and growing peach hair before soon enough
the licking began again.

And his stools became liquid,
his incontinence creating
plentiful putrid pools around the house,
but never where he was supposed to…

I took him to the Vet again, and pointed at his wound
and his weight loss, and how it was the same ol same ol…
and they prescribed the same ol same ol…
….and took my money.

Friends told me to have him put down,
others told me to give him to adoption.
But as a father of a little girl with an Immune disorder,
how could I explain why I was having him put down,
or even put out?

I have no heart to find the words that would be
merely window dressing to a lie,
One that would comfort me would do nothing for her…
that he is draining us of money we don’t have,
So then she will think that we think the same of her?

No.

He is family, and we will keep trying.
It is the only way,
and while I have no clue where the money will come from
I will keep trying.
Because he is family,
and that’s what families do.

What Lies Beneath

 

Festering within
an oozing wound of the soul
Attempts to blot it out,
stamp it out,
Failing.…
it persists…
Festers…
taking its toll.
A sacrifice of dreams,
on an altar of hope,
Abused and advantaged with no remorse
and in silence, soul weeping in fury
at everything lost,
at what little was gained
at exorbitant cost
and seeing it all,
all in vain…
the happiness, the persistence,
the struggle, the resistance,
the surrender…
the pain…

What could be summed up in simple words,
is not proper to know.
But what lies beneath,
never to pass over the tongue or teeth
a wretched realization
as a rolling wave
to drown the heart,
 and drag the soul to a tearful grave.

What shell then, is this?
That it breathes and persists?
It is but a man….

Or at least….was once.

The Dream

I awoke from a feverish dream

body drenched and trembling

half out of the bed, 

awaking midflight, 

fleeing a world that dissolved 

with a blink of sleep filled eyes. 

As I stumbled downstairs,

the stairs now free

of rubble or debris,

I found myself stepping around shadows

of what was there moments before…

Hardness

Softness…

softness brought to ruin…

Step over. 

Step over.

The steam of my coffee

hitting and heating my face,

flashes of images, flickering flames,

my face hot from them. 

A swallow or two stirs my mind

and swirls the images 

Out of order like a glitching video.

Sound. No Sound.

Screams. Singing. Crackling. Rapid Fire in the distance

A song. A lullaby, one I know, but don’t,

I hear the rumbling, and far off hum of engines, 

wind to my back, to my front. 

Disjointed, swirling…

Static. 

It all fades to static as I come around.

I try to piece it together before it melts away

like a jigsaw puzzle made of ice.

But it drips through my fingers…

Old Route 64

There’s a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.
Once a happy little farmhouse
built back before the war,
home to a growing family,
filled with happiness and love galore,
now just a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.

The mama made it a happy home
for the babies that they bore,
and papa did his very best
to cover both the bills and the chores,
and to make time for mama
and those babies he adored.
But that Greedy old bastard Uncle Sam
kept papa just a shade under poor.
Working a full time job as well as his little farm
out by old route 64

There’s a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.
Once a happy little farmhouse
built back before the war,
home to a growing family,
filled with happiness and love galore,
now just a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.

Then the banker whores, they moved in,
and the law put a note on the front door,
Saying unless Papa paid them off in full
it wouldn’t be the family farm no more…
Now, Papa had made a promise,
it was an oath that he had swore,
just like his own daddy
and his granddaddy before:
That his wife and children
would always be well cared for,
so he rustled through his desk for the paper
that he would trade his own life for.

There’s a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.
Once a happy little farmhouse
built back before the war,
home to a growing family,
filled with happiness and love galore,
now just a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.

They told mama it was a freak accident
as they sealed off the barn door,
and mama got the insurance money
but couldn’t bear to live there no more….
So papa kept his promise,
but lost his loves, his farm, and more
out by a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.