Sunday, April 3, 2016

All The Months Have 28 Days

When I planned for this, well
This wasn't what I planned for.
It was that, or maybe even
Something else entirely.

However oddly it's come out,
The dailiness of life prevails.
Funny, for such seeming triviality
To rule a life, if always kindly.

Hundreds of months gone by
Marked by little more than
The tearing of a page, and coffee.
Absent pomp, if not circumstance.

The dry, colorless grass
Becomes a green so bright
It stains everything in sight.
It's very nearly gaudy.

Can it really be spring again?
(What of last year, what to say?)
I grow tired of the very thing
That is supposed to wake me up.

Let me then go away, far.
Where the faces are bold.
Like Picassos, noses
Where ears should go.

Let me brush by the strange
And embrace it, heedless 
Of germs, bombs, and warfare.
Let me go there. Let me go.


Jan said...

Thank you for your writing.

Bibliomama said...

I have issues with poetry. My eyes bounce off it. I grow impatient. When I read about someone sitting up in bed with a book of poetry I am numb with incomprehension. And then I stumble across something agreeable and pleasing. Like this.

Amy said...

I love this.

Christine said...

I needed a good poem on the snowy April day. Thank you.