Yesterday. Oh man.
Words meant something.
I heard heroin,
I heard I’m here for you.
He didn’t know her,
But paid for her food
As she wrestled with
Demons.
Sat and offered something…
Hope? Maybe.
Comfort? Surely.
All I could offer
Were tears,
And those I cried
At home.
Peace, people.
James Taylor knew, didn’t he, the pain of
Thinking he’d have one more chance
To hold a hand
To say the words and hear theirs in return
To savor their embrace
Only to be denied these comforts
Forever.
Oh, I always thought that I’d see them
One more time again.
A million emotions
Mask grief:
Anger and madness
Contrition and control
Exhaustion and endurance
Helplessness and hopelessness
Too many to name. So much to bear.
The hurt reaches into each pore,
Slender branches poking and prodding
Taking over until the misery spills out faster
Than we can process it.
And that is why we
Weep.
You always think you have another day,
Another moment to say I love you,
To hold the hand that
Needs holding,
To sing one
Last song.
But really, all you have is now.
And just like that, now
Has also slipped
away.
Peace, people.
I wrote this several Christmases ago and thought it worth sharing again. At any rate, I’m too stuffed with turkey and dressing to come up with anything original.
Wherever you are, however you celebrate, I hope this season finds you safe and healthy. Happy Holidays, friends.
https://nananoyz5forme.com/2015/12/24/christmas-letter/
Peace, people.
World peace, or at least a reasonable
Facsimile thereof.
An end to poverty and love enough to
Go around.
Hands extended in kindness, hearts warmed
In gladness.
Food and drink to nourish every single
Child on earth.
A home for every stray, a warm place to
Shelter from the cold.
Comfort and joy.
Comfort and joy.
Peace, people.
If I tell you I saw Rembrandt this morning, his face staring up at me from my bathroom rug, of all places, would you think me insane or would you direct me to the proper authorities?
Had it been the Virgin Mary I’d seen, I’d know exactly who to contact. Alas, it’s a long-dead Dutch painter.
On second thought, it might not be Rembrandt at all, but instead the steely-eyed conquistador whose likeness graced the walls of my childhood home during one of Mom’s theme periods of decorating.
Although, the image bears a striking resemblance to a hat-wearing woman from a famous painting, the title of which escapes my mind, except the visage on my bath mat clearly has a mustache, and the lady in the painting does not.
But, wait. It’s none of the above.
The closer I get the more I realize it’s likely Sigmund Freud come to call. Oh, the irony.
Peace, people.
How strong is too strong
When one crafts a hot toddy?
I remain on my feet,
Yet my writing’s rather shoddy.
I’m light in the head
And wobbly in my body
I feel perfectly sane,
But I’m acting rather dotty.
Oh, dear, I think it’s fairly clear
I’ve too much whiskey in my toddy.
This poem came up in my Facebook memories today. I’d completely forgotten about it, but I think it has merit. As I recall I’d written a part of the poem, but felt like it was half-baked. Days went by and I had an epiphany that allowed me to continue the thoughts that first compelled me to write this. Now I’m not certain if this is two poems or one poem in two parts. I just know I like it. Maybe you will, too.
https://nananoyz5forme.com/2015/11/12/broken-people
Quick burst of flavor
Ripe red cherry tomatoes
No two quite alike
This one like sugar
Unlike the fat squishy one
That falls a bit flat
One thing for certain
They taste nothing like cherries
I fell for that once
Praying for Eyebrowz 