It’s easy to forget
But happiness
She always comes back
That emptyheaded little bluebird
Flutters off
God knows why
She has everything she needs here
I do all I can to make her comfortable
But sometimes she just
Has
To leave
And I wait for her
Looking anxiously out the window
Refilling her water bowl
Putting out her favorite treats
Trying in vain to lure her back
And hope
That she didn’t leave for good this time.
I need her
To fill my day with songs again.
This stemmed from a conversation me and my friends had in a group text.
I am blessed to have the most interesting and creative friends, and our conversations are always something else.
Cowdog Creatives (Hannah) took this picture and sent it to our text group, saying how dramatically it died in the last ray of sunlight.
Another friend said it looked like an Italian opera singer, declaring in song his long-unspoken love to the fair Limoncello with his final breath.
I can’t write opera, but I can write melodramatic sonnets, so I had to join in poking fun at this roach’s dramatic death.
It’s OK to cry.
Fair Lemoncello, golden wings and thighs
No weeping from those scintillating eyes.
I am content that you have heard me speak;
No grief should mar the shine upon that cheek.
What warmth is this that causes my love worry?
A ray of sunlight, yet I cannot scurry.
It lays bare all my tender love for thee.
There is no fear where Lemoncello be.
There’s nothing more to say. My soul is clear.
I cannot stay, my insect queen, to hear
Thy chirped response; angelic though you be
A darker angel draws now near to me.
I do not mind death’s amply lit approach.
Today this nymph developed into roach.
I have lots of little bits and pieces floating around. Not quite good enough, or not quite enough substance, for a whole post. But they’re interesting, and they’re clogging up my archives, and I want to stop tripping over them every time I go through my stuff to choose what to post, so here you go.
Today I suffer
From reverse Midas touch
Where everything my skin so much as grazes
Turns to shit.
I’m not giving out hugs today.
I have four little plants in my window box
They are growing
Happy and young and turgid
I do love me a turgid turgid plant.
Everything is a failure
Everything I touch
But every failure I touch is a little better than the last failure
A little less fail in each one
Charles Bukowski
What a nut
So why is it I understand
Everything he says
And everything he is…
The internet is down
And we have nothing to do
But work outside
Write
Cook
Watch movies
Pet the cats.
Oh please Mr Internet Man,
Come save us!
I think I will
Refract
And if I choose to do so
How many forms of me
Must I maintain?
I hurt.
I rage.
Everything is uncomfortable.
Everyone pisses me off.
I foam
I age
I stabbed something to death today
But when I try to remember what
All I see is red.
Please don’t leave me.
I need you
To be myself.
I can’t take life without you.
I don’t know what I would do.
I will change.
Whatever I have done wrong, I can change it.
I’ll do the dishes more.
I’ll work out.
I’ll get a better job.
Don’t leave me.
You like that guy better?
I can be that guy.
Whatever he has that I don’t have,
Just let me know what it is,
And I’ll have it too.
Yes, people can change.
I am a blank, empty shell.
Please
Fill me with whatever you need.
I don’t know what I am without you.
I’ll be whoever you need.
How can you turn an offer like this down?
Don’t you want to be worshipped?
Don’t you want a slave?
Isn’t this
The ultimate love?
How can I give you
A fulfilling relationship?
Please
One more chance.
I’ll try harder
To be better.
A new man.
A different man.
Let me try again.
That feather touch
You are so light
So gentle with me
Do you think I will break?
I pour your coffee
You laugh at my joke
Why can’t we be forever.
I want this to be forever.
But you’re slipping through my fingers
You sublimate
And before I can understand why
You’re nothing but ether
A soft golden glow of remembrance.
A ray of sun lighting up the dust motes
Alighting on your picture.
And although it’s been weeks
Since you were here
Your touch lingers on my hair.
I’m not ready
It’s not true
Your picture is here
But it’s not you
Sarah D. Silvey 