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.
With stealth the orange sight is flitting
Like a drunken angel weary
In short bursts higher on the wind
Gusting ‘neath heav’ns painted eerie,
Was its sign their grim demeanor,
For they brood overcast and grave?
Or is it simply wary of
The chilly way the skies behave?
Would I could accompany you
To where you flee with good reason!
Winter’s dirges sound while flees the
Last butterfly of the season.
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.
Why weep ye? This flower was made
So that it could be picked and die;
The starlet blossom’s not afraid.
The same shall pass to you and I.
Death meets even its brethren buds
By bugs, pests, or inclement climes,
Like those who’ve cast their petal duds
Early, in season, or betimes—
Just like those that lay on the ground,
A pile of mush and rotten things,
And those withered where stems abound.
Don’t you know we’re all just playthings?
There’s blithe relief now in the air,
For the sorrow of the drought’s gone.
It’s been so long since the snare
Drum of rain and the woodwinds blown
And the melodic tuba of
Thunder have been heard in these parts.
Aye, spring’s enjoyed not just for love,
Which gladdens and deceives the hearts
Of many a spry lad and lass
And creatures stung by love’s potions,
But moreso for the storms that pass—
The weather guides our emotions.
Azaleas in purples and pinks
And strange reds, grass and clover shag,
Lil’ white and purple forbs, me thinks,
Are enjoying their time to brag.
Dead chlorophyll leaves are bleeding
In the green yard haphazardly;
The fat squirrels themselves are treating,
Since still now occasionally
Stray pecans continue falling
When the wind roars; they eat haply
In between limbs that had nothing
Better to do than fall gaily,
‘Sif they were in love with any
Passing wind. To me ’tis beauty,
And the dogwood blossoms agree.
It’s undisturbed, as it should be.
I lie still and levitating
In a spring field serene and mild.
The gentle breeze is quite sedating;
My head rests on a tuft of cloud.
Tall grasses, wheat, and rye stretch up;
They’ve tickled my fancy for hours.
A spattering of buttercups,
Purple pieces of wildflowers,
Bedraggled dandelion whelps,
And blossomed blackberry brambles
Provide the reverence that helps
My mind focus as it ambles.
No part of my body touches
Another—no pressure or pain.
The warm sun’s eager paintbrushes
Envision my face. A refrain
Of boisterous birds is muted
Like butterfly wings flying by
And the white tails, who are suited
To let meditating men lie.
There is no sound that I can hear,
Nor the witnessing goldenrods
That line the trees on all sides clear
To the horizon and the gods.
I’ve pushed allergens far from thought
So that they cannot afflict me.
I’m cool and tranquil, though I’ve fought,
As the stream tarrying to see
What’s not seen in a century,
A wonder worthy of old Greece,
Such a peculiar oddity—
Me, finally resting in peace.
Sometimes I close the curtains drawn
To shade my irritated eyes
From twilight, noonday sun, and dawn,
And the joy that the light belies.
With my curtains and shutters closed,
I wash the windows of my soul;
I’d washed them not, were I exposed,
Lest hypocrites come to console.
Indeed, no one should see just how
Vulnerable I am washing
Them in the darkness and shadow
With my salty buckets sloshing.
Thus I defy optimism—
The light that would have me believe
That to not preach idealism
Would be quite absurd and naïve,
That should I block out its bright light
E’en temporarily, ‘twould be
Useless. It misconstrues my plight
Since its very brilliance shows me
The specks and smudges and smears that
Caused me to wash in the first place.
It’s time to draw the curtains back,
Since manhood can now show its face.
I never want to see the moon
As depressed as I am tonight,
For it would but add to my gloom
To be bathed in a blue moon’s light.
‘Tis better that it hides its face,
Since I could never bear to see
The only friend who can solace
Feeling lost and melancholy.
For it would remind me of the tears
That lunar rays have only known
And the confessions of my fears
I’ve given to the moon alone.
Its light to others may be pale,
But it enlightens me. It’s warm.
It’s the only friend, as well,
Who’s never done me any harm.
I went to the sassafras tree;
With every step my feet were lead,
Knowing, should I not return soon,
There would be even more to dread.
With tears streaming down my face
Like a mountain thawing in Spring,
My moistened eyes tried to decide
Which vessel of pain I’d bring
Back for a well-deserved switching,
Though this seemed punishment plenty.
Why make a child pick their own doom?
I thought as a cognoscenti
Of switches, which one shall I pick?
A skinny, limber limb that stings?
But if it breaks, I shall return
To pick and face more swats and swings.
I don’t want to get one too wide,
But which is a suitable size?
The one I picked seemed far too big;
I tried not to think of the cries
That I would yelp, unless I could
Find the strength to bite back the pain.
But if I masked how much it hurt,
I might have to pick one again,
Since it was not enough to teach
Me the ills of sin the hard way.
Maybe they thought picking switches
Was the worst torture anyway.
Midnight Musings from Melancholy Muses 