Monday

I’m finally a grown up…now what?

Between wasting time, 

a lot of sitting down,

A little wondering how,

A coffee and bad circulation morning happened to me.

Museum

                I am so tired of being me.

               No one can do it better but

                I want to be an oil painting,

                In some stuffy library hall

                and then I'll be enough,

                And say I lived well.

                And children will ignore me,

               While grown -ups will pretend they know me,

                And somewhere on top a cloud

                I’ll be making music

                forgetting who I used to be,

                   Or why I tried so hard.  

Time

Say things to me sweet and gentle

Mend the mental chaos binding

Me, and maybe then I will be whole.

And maybe you will have a purpose

Tender fort just hover over me.

Don’t stop to think of thoughts

And things that plot against us.

Just think of things to quench and mend us.

And slowly time will ooze along a little

Relative to you and simple me,

Kind minutes wasting in longevity.

Our paradise.

Carry On

Look at it.

The creature is moving,

The movements are rhythmic,

The mimic impostor

she owns the world.

She owns the filth of it.

She owns the mire.

What is it?

The outline is clear,

The shading needs work.

The curves move,

It dances.

It finds out routines.

It plays the Piper.

Find her

Fix her

Don’t lose her

Don’t break her,

Find her

Fix her

Forgive her,

Maker.