Hermits can be such simple friends,
Low maintenance, and such godsends.
Don’t visit or call them on the phone,
But simply leave them all alone.
Then, your friendship will have no end.
Satire
The Bairn’s Vast Energy
Mothers rejoice we’re not full grown
When we call their small wombs our home;
Trimesters and delivery’d
Be more substantial misery.
But they do not see ‘neath the skin
That all their future gals and men
Are spirits long before mature
Who somehow manage to endure
Being stuffed inside cheeky dwarves—
Relieved when their small body morphs
And gives them some more room to stretch
So they have less cause to kvetch.
The spirit, being energy,
The soul’s source of vitality,
Finds that its power’s amplified
When in a wee form it abides.
Thus, kids have endless energy,
Giving us nostalgic envy.
My Comfy Placenta
The warm water sloshes slightly
As I adjust in my cramped place,
Unwilling to leave the security,
Since I don’t know what I shall face.
But something tells me I must go
Beyond my comfy placenta,
Since I control not even this;
My domain is an irredenta.
The water pours forth, forcing me
Into a new birth violently.
The “womb” and “tub” both end in “b”
And let me live complacently.
Worth Your Weight in Chocolate
You’re worth your weight in chocolate
(And double that in cacao)
Squared to infinity cubed
For each second starting now
Off into eternity,
How long I long you’ll be mine,
That’s roughly the potency
Of your love that I enshrine.
You flood me with chemicals
Like chocolate, and are sweet, too,
With just enough bitterness
That I fully savour you.
Wintry Days In Hell
I’ll suffer with you tomorrow,
And we can gnash our teeth and yell.
Nay, talk ye not of your sorrow,
For it’s rare that I feel this well.
Keep your burning and your brimstone,
And maybe next week I’ll join you.
But for now the tormentor’s gone,
And a cold breeze is slipping through.
I think I’ll take advantage of
Providence to wet my whistle.
Maybe I’ll even find a love
Who’s not gnawed down to the gristle.
Don’t think I’ll sit on my fanny,
The victim of my own fear’s spell,
For there are only so many
Of these rare, wintry days in hell.
Small Jaunts
Childhood trips were oft painful things,
Even those small jaunts to the store.
Listening as a sibling sings
Made you vow to go nevermore.
The pain, the pain, but not from song,
But from bruised arms and wounded prides
When a punch buggy drove along
Causing large bruises on our hides
Should it be that we were not first
To see it and strike, and even then
There were times you were reimbursed.
Would this misery never end?
Were we hit again, we would cry;
No boy should be seen doing such.
That, in truth, is the reason why
We asked, “Are we there yet?” so much.
It had naught to do with the way
The ability to drive morphs
Your mind. What seemed to take all day
To reach, now but five minutes dwarfs.
Lo, herein lays perception’s key:
Five minutes of what you control
Are hours of captivity
When you’re a prisoner in soul.
Rare Perfection Among Men
For four hundred and thirty-six
Reasons there are not to love me
Mentally, emotionally,
Spiritually, and physically,
And that is all, I must confess,
Give or take nine thousand ten.
I am only…you know the rest,
A rare perfection among men.
None else is so complicated,
So loving them’s vain and easy;
Only patient, dedicated
Gluttons for pain could dare love me.
Reprimand Sarcastic Pride
My teacher took me aside
After class in eleventh grade
To reprimand sarcastic pride
For the foolish comments I made.
She told me that I would do well
To be a little more sincere,
Or something more than school I’d fail,
Since I’d never learn to endear
Others and would lose my few friends.
My mouth’d get me in trouble, too,
Before my life reached its sad ends.
It got me married. It was true.
Mem’ry No Longer Avails
I travel alone winding trails
That I’m certain I’ve trod before,
But mem’ry no longer avails.
The past’s paths are myths, legends, lore,
And stories I would fain believe
Were I not wary of the snare;
For confusion and fact do cleave
Like fresh lovers watched unaware.
Now, I know not what I should trust,
Since man’s mortal, and love is frail.
But is it wrong to love a lie
When real history’d be a hell?
I can see how I would have crossed
Through the leaves and over the ridge
To see the imagined sights lost
By entering the covered bridge.
I see myself wrapped up in bliss,
Her hair and dress flowing, twirling,
And ‘neath the ridge we wait and kiss,
Hidden to the world that’s whirling.
We separate. I’ll come again
To see her, my heart’s decided.
Why lose her to another man?
In deception, I’ll be prided.
Look how I am covering up
The evidence of my coming.
Surely that must be why I feel
So compelled to break out running,
Certain as a groundhog’s senses
That spring is shortly due to be.
I run to her, but find fences.
Sorrow streams alluvially.
Once more to the path I return,
Quite uncertain what is real.
Why can fantasy make me burn,
Confounding the ways that I feel?
Why can’t life be hon’rable as
Fleeting dreams prematurely dead?
It fails, despite the time it has,
So I’ll prefer to dream instead.
I can make up my destinies,
No matter what I’ve been slated;
When reality mutinies,
I can muse, like it’s been fated.
For only safe within my dreams
Can I ever be satisfied,
For what is man? Truly, it seems,
Misery till the day he’s died.
The Naked Mole Rat and the Penguin
Once, there lived a penguin, and she madly fell in love with a naked mole rat that fell in love with her. The penguin came to live with the naked mole rat in his burrow. But, alas, she couldn’t take the heat.
“Honey,” the penguin said, “I’ve got to get out of the kitchen.”
“Well, come on inside the living room burrow and lay down in the cool. I’ll finish supper,” the loving naked mole rat said.
“No, honey, I’ve got to go back to where I came from. I want to stay here, I honestly do, but I can’t.”
“If you cannot live here with me, then I’ll go to Antarctica with you. I cannot live without you.”
They packed up their love and left the homely burrow to live in cold and windy lands. But, just as the penguin could not take the heat, the naked mole rat was unable to cope with the bitter freezing cold. He died. In the snow.
Moral:
There are some things love can’t conquer.
Midnight Musings from Melancholy Muses 