End of the Jest

Sunday night is an imposter,

The kind that writers wearing bandanas foster.

Taking notes on how the sugary sweet sodas he sips,

Is a metaphor for nourishment escaping our collective lips.

Sunday night's when writers don't work,

So they try poetry for a quirk.

On Monday you wake up early ,

To chase your horses in the mist, ever so unclearly.

Tuesday was blue, Thursday was push and shove,

Then came Friday and you still weren't in love.

.

.

Sunday night and emotions, just don't go hand in glove.

Sunday nights are not to be trusted for emotions,

There are so many places you would rather be,

So many people you would rather be and be with.

Yet you find yourself blinded by the blue light,

Of your computer screen, bandana on nightstand,

Writing this poem.

Reaching/Leaving

The day before you came/left,

Of appropriate words,I was bereft.

I saw you pack, words that were had,

Into suitcases of clothes and apples gone bad.

You left the keys on the nightstand,

Along with matches of your brand.

Where could you be going without a key?

Were you leaving home to go home across the sea?

Will memory fade like sea foam?

As you reach/leave this honeycomb.

Have you learnt or will it be the same?

Will you finally know your name?

You said as you left/came,“Write about me”,

You know I’m doing just that.

Just have me know,

Am I reaching you or am I leaving you?

The Sunday Poet

When the weight of the world is fleetingly off my shoulder,

I let ink drip from my head onto paper.

The Pernicious Poet mocks me about words lost.

I do not chose to write on Mondays,

About love lost and hearts tossed,

I write on borrowed time on Sundays.

He asks me, “ Will you fly on artistic ventures?”

“ Or will we be another autistic dementor?”

He tells me I will be another brick in the wall,

Because no belle dame sans merci has me in thrall!

He dreams of Ozymandias in daffodils,

And I cannot sleep thinking of the bills.

He tells me the sky is but a landfill,

And I’m just busy working my power drill.

He tells me I will always have a writer’s block,

You can only write on blackboards with white chalk.

He tells me to to live everyday as my last,

I say, If today were the last, I’m at peace with the past.

He tells me to pull the trigger, drop the blade, seize the day!

And I pick the pen-today I write, it is a Sunday.

The Pernicious Poet tells me Poetry only comes from Poverty,

I tell him that is exactly why I write on Sundays strictly.

Pensively the Pernicious Poet provokes

“Do you want to write? Or do you want to be happy?”

I do not mean it to be snarky,

I chose to write on Sundays so on other days,

I can be happy.

When the weight of the world is fleetingly off my shoulder,

I let ink drip from my head onto paper.

Sessions

Hello again it's you and me,
coffee for you and words for me.
Fresh paint on my walls and a thousand stories,
Of ups and downs and flailing glory.
A nervous laugh and you tell me,
Of childhood ghosts and new found fears.
On reckless nights down we go,
Opening ourselves and mixing tears.
But now our time is done ,
we go into life and oblivion .

In this moment , if we chose to stay,
We'll build our bridges and barricades.
Time and place won't mean a thing,
A thousand years or decades.
That was there time, this is our place.
We won't be lost cuz we've been saved.

Hello again, it's you and me,
kinda how it used to be.
Been so long since you've seen me,
I've got new stories and new memories.
So pick one gem hanging in the air ,
as we go into conversation.
Sailing uncharted waters ,
of our begginings and our ends.