With So Many Tears

With so many tears

A dismal life of clutter

And not

Having anything of value

Not a one

Decent face

with whom

To bid the morning anew

 

Sallow and pale

A cause for no real

Alarm

Nothing permanent to cling to

Not in object defying

Wasteland

 

Sleepless nights

Tangled sheets for one

With so many tears

For lights out

Without any bed time story

 

II

With so many tears

A hopeful breath familiar

And with

Attentive nods and grins

Always

A lovely face

with whom to

Tuck away the evening and

bid the morning anew

 

A smitten tide of

Suitable love,

Of comfort,

Of

 

Mind at ease and

Simple pace of thoughts

Heart still racing

With excited touch

Lights out

With promise of bed time stories

 

TDM

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A Remembrance of Winter

The snow is falling now, and I am happy to walk through the village and let it cover me like a cloak. The flakes tickle my eyelashes and for once I am okay with giggling to myself and smiling, even though passers by can see no reason for a grin or a smirk on such a grey day.

Grey days hardly bother me. I like the stoic feel of the sky, to find the peeking light in other places when the sun is not shining amuses me and brings me much pleasure. And how amplified the little pleasures seem on days when there appears to be no light. The want or need for them is much greater.

I do not want the winter to end. I really do not. I like the way it makes me feel. I love the coziness of coming indoors from a frosty walk and warming my cheeks by the fire. I like how hot chocolate is smooth and how quilts are heavy warmth wrapped around my legs.

I like the woods when it is snowing. How the birch looks behind a sheet of falling snow. How the evergreens become white monuments with green needles poking through. How tracks outline a walkway of otherwise white roads and guide me anyway and every way. And if I find a lonely path, I would hope that my own tracks would not be covered by the ceaseless snowfall, though beautiful and silent, that I might, when I desire, be able to find my way back.

T. DM

My Head is Broken

Whatever will i do with this head of mine,
it thinks of nothing,
no thoughts divine,
and when i come close
to pondering fare,
i sit and wonder,
i sit and stare.
Nothing ever comes easily
in this cognitive lump,
a heap of nothingness,
a neurological lump.
And if it ever decides to spark a fuse,
a thought, an idea,

i shall not refuse.