44 minutes to go and I'll be done with work for the weekend. It was an interesting one for sure, not at all my usual routine at the restaurant but back to the spa this Monday, gazing out at the stormy, green clouds, wishing I was doing more than writing schedules and manuals. I did sneak in a few minutes here to write a new poem...two actually, let me know what you think...
I am looking forward to this week quite a lot actually - hair and nails done tomorrow with sis, many days off of any obligations again, hoping they are used for studies and writing...we'll see how that goes. I do wish you all a lovely week. Talk to you soon!
Wishing you were here and there and
Nothing is like the sun when you need it
Concern for the black and the yellow
Cook, clean, work, cry, sleep and scream
Life is nothing like a box of whatever.
It’s more like a chant, a prayer, an anthem of
I see you drift between the sand and kitchen knives.
Your wings were clipped a long time ago, making
Your horizons smaller.
The glass reflects my face as I look at the frame of you
Frozen in youth and happiness (lies), the second daughter.
Our parents turned the world into a game show.
Textbook worm and just as nocturnal.
I thought you were the only one with the looks.
But we’re not exceptional.
We’re just as normal as they were.
Finger Painting the Sky
It’s as if the sun is wearing tinted glasses.
The bleakness and hazy nature of the air
Alludes to his laziness and exhaustion.
Robert cannot bring himself to change
Out of his thin robe into faded jeans
And flannel. It takes all that is in him
To bring the cup of coffee close enough
To his lips to take a sip. The black liquid swirls
And reminds him of his childhood by the sea.
He wishes he could return, skipping and tumbling
Through the shells and foggy glass on the beach.
The sun was bolder then, it never hid behind clouds
When he was a child. It shone proudly with rays
That warmed his fuzzy arms and legs, pimpled by the breeze.
Breaking the surface of the diamond lake he blinked
The water out of his coffee eyes to see birds circling in the blue.
They cawed and crowed above him waiting
For his offering of the mackerel held between his teeth.
She brought him flowers today, two bouquets,
One white and one red birthing orange.
The first reminds him of death, the bleach and blankness
Of nothing and the loss of who he once was.
The second mocks him with images of sunsets and
Mango-flesh he’ll never taste again, the juice running down his
Their faces laugh at him, jovial in their memories and foreshadowing.
He is old now, grey and shriveled, sick.
Too weak to lift the vase to put them by his window (or throw them across the room).
She brings him soup, a milky yellow broth that brings
To mind urine and he cannot eat it. He knows he should,
She tells him he must. But he cannot. He pours it into the
Vases when she isn’t looking. Ha, he thinks to himself
Let’s see who’s better now. The flowers do not laugh anymore.
His grin creases the petal-thin flesh, no not flesh
It’s too worn and transparent to be flesh, skin, no
Not skin because it does not protect him anymore
It’s failed and she can’t make him eat. She pauses
Longer in the kitchen than she should. She’s waiting for him
To be better, to smile again. How can he tell her that she’s waiting