My harrows, blades, and plows are rusting
In the fields, exposed to the weather
Where I left them. My heart went lusting
For a new labour, as it’s ever
Done, and I forgot about them there
Just like the new project I’d begun,
For I laboured some while it was fair
But hid from the rain and blazing sun.
I left my fields uncultivated,
A million things undone, maybe more.
It’s clear to see my life’s frustrated,
Being too prone to give up and bore.
He is exploring carefully,
Knowing he must act to be blest;
Giving his own lobotomy,
He searches with vigor and zest.
He doesn’t heed their vain protests
Or learn from their bad examples.
His cilia’s sweetly caressed;
He savours his freshest samples.
With what gusto and zeal he mines,
Looking for his golden treasures!
I rejoice at finding such signs
Life’s lived best for simple pleasures.
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.
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.
Regrets, well, I’ve had many,
But ’tis best to let wasted years be,
As reliving them would make
The present and future misery.
“What can I do now to change my course?
How can I be a happier me?”
Are the questions I should ask myself
To evade future regret and misery.
The past’s been wrought; it brought me here,
And now it’s up to me to see
That since this is the only moment
It’s the best possible one for me.
The music plays its notes so slow,
And the handle turns the surprise.
The air’s stillness is apropos,
But not excitement in your eyes.
Something clicks as you turn a note;
Your stomach sours and sickens.
You cringe, watching the lid explode
Like suicide bomber chickens.
The jack-in-the-box taunts us now;
We push his scabby head back in.
Someone winds him the first time loud;
They can’t help but do it again.
But sometimes some, after their shocks,
Forget to push the puppet in;
They’re scared by their jack-in-the-box,
For that is life, world with an end.
Innocence is your first friend
When you bump into this world,
Getting quite the concussion.
It finds you fetal and curled
And whispers sick lullabies
To make you trust everyone.
And suff’ring from amnesia,
Confidence is easily won.
Life and friends start to betray,
And everything is just show.
Abandoned, abused you find
Innocence was the first to go.
It calls to me with tempting words,
Begging my teeth to masticate
And feel the fibers fill my mouth
As its juice makes me salivate.
And all it does to bid me this
Is sunburn in a field of spring
Invoking a spell of mem’ry
Long dusty of once winnowing
The chaff from this abundant weed
That I was forbidden to chew.
I hesitate somehow restrained,
Knowing what one my age should do.
Perhaps it’s just to prove a point,
But I cross to the field’s red patch,
Pluck a stalk, clean it, and try not
To think of germs or what might hatch.
I want this moment raw and wild,
Like the millions had as a boy.
The first sweet grass of the season
Nonetheless fails to give me joy.
I doubt it’s because its taste’s changed,
Though it’s nothing like in childhood.
For worry hinders enjoying
The simple pleasures a child would.
Though it’s a tart and pulpy mess,
I chew more as a reminder
Of the times when I truly lived.
The taste’s sour; nostalgia’s kinder.
A bunch of bluebells on a hill
Overlooks me where I walk
Listening to the birds and wind
As they chirp, tweet, squawk, and talk.
I fear that they once were daisies,
But I have made them depressed.
They’d curdle, were they buttercups;
Roses would bleed like my chest.
But no matter what breed they were,
They’ve taken part of my pain.
I once thought flowers were petty,
But ’tis I, not them, who’s vain.
Each night the spiders craft their webs
Slinging silk through the starlit skies.
Gossamer glistens when night ebbs,
And the world wakes to pursue lies.
The arachnids’ fishing nets span
From tree limb to bush leaf through air.
As blindly as only men can,
I walk wrecking what’s wrought with care.
You’d think I’d learn every morning
To watch for their sticky trip wires
That glimmer when light’s adorning
Rays shine on where the dawn perspires.
You’d think they’d learn to build elsewhere,
Since I’ll pass through the path each day.
If they built higher than my hair,
We would peaceably share the way.
They’ll build in vain till they die;
Surely their spoils must justify
What’s gone in the blink of an eye.
We’re alike, this spider and I.
Its web’s a monument to me,
A frail thing which soon passes on,
Hoping to serve out its purpose
Before an instant finds it gone.
Midnight Musings from Melancholy Muses 