I couldn’t become June Cleaver for you.
You couldn’t be Marcia Brady for me.
I tried to put that apron on
And learn to make a *** roast, but
You took a grudge and nourished it
And watched it thrive for 30 years
While I turned into a withered husk
In the desert of lost affection.

I wanted to be your special friend -
Your one safe place in a tempest.
I built strong walls and a comforting fire
You never set foot past the doorway.
The welcome mat was never pulled in
And a small light was always burning
But you were lost in a different place
And wouldn’t let me try to find you.
ljm

As close as the wind that ruffles my hair
As distant as the sun that warms me
She orbits the world I made for us
In dreams of family that could not hold
And spilled our happiness away.

Perihelion when illness strikes
And action smothers need for words
Aphelion at most other times
When lessons learned from
Other teachers rule her sky.

A comet with a gleaming tail
She blazes through my firmament
On schedules that I can not know
And I can but fulfill the needs
That let me revel in her glow.

Longing does not change her course
Apologies do not prevail
Mute obedience is required
To catch a glimpse of what I’ve made
As she flashes briefly through my life
ljm

Looking at a blank screen
With a blank stare
And an even blanker mind

Where are the words that
Used to tumble *****-nilly
From a churning creativity
ljm

The subtle beauty of the dawning sky,
As it paints the bottoms of the fluffy clouds
A delicious fire opal pink
Makes a vivid contrast to the vista
Of the brutal desert spread below it,
Rocks and sand in gray and tan.
Jagged cliffs rear fierce and black
Against the glory of the sunrise.

A land of thunder and sheet lightning,
Giant ploppy drops of rain
Blown sideways by the angry wind
Create a night of little sleeping,
Waiting for the appearance of the Sun
To boil the moisture into steam
And wilt the flowers and the soul,
Proving gentle beauty often hides a barb.
ljm

This country is in dire straits
The great unwashed now
Outnumber the intelligencia
And truth and facts
No longer rule the day.
The gates are swinging open
For the Robber Barons to hold sway
As Gaia begs for mercy.
Everything is up for sale
Including honesty and souls.
The sexiest thing obtainable
Is power in it’s crudest form.
No female DNA is safe.
Children learn it all by five
And **** themselves by ten.
The One Percent hold all the cards-
The rest of us use credit
With totals we can never pay.
Everything is Monetized
Except unwanted children-
No one’s solved that problem yet.
Now adults can choose their gender
And switch it any day they choose.
Families are multicolored
And a Peacock is a service bird.
Rainy days do not get saved for,
College loans are never paid.
The Holier-Than-Us are ruling
In their God promoting way
Wearing masks of indignation
To cover their own iniquity.
Even though the sun still shines
The rain pours down, the snow piles up-
It’s one endless epic storm
As Six-pack Joe heads off to work
To earn almost not quite enough.

Will we crumble - will we thrive
Only if the voters rock the boat
And throw the pirates overboard.
ljm

He was acquitted in a trial
With no witnesses allowed
And no testimony taken
The verdict a foregone conclusion
Even the Mafia couldn’t swing
A Sweetheart deal like that.
ljm

Fading
Like a beauty queen
Grown old,
Sunrise is too quckly over.
ljm

Reality is circling around, all sharp with spiky thorns,
For another go at my fragile little mind
That floats like an over-inflated balloon
At the end of a long and fraying cord

Fantasy comes like a hand-knit velvet shawl
To wrap my heart in peaceful comfort,
Protecting it from barbs and slashes
That would prove the dream unreal.

Uncertainty in the form of wind begins to howl
And drowns the etude in cacophony,
Whipping up the desiccated leaves of Autumn
And stirring thoughts of grave endeavors.

Resignation gradually lays down the scimitar
That once set out to rearrange the world
And now is full of nicks and scratches,
So much heavier to carry than before.

Acceptance like a gentle winter snowfall
Settles on the jagged shards of effort
And the broken bits of unbuilt mansions,
Making it all calm and smooth and peaceful.
ljm

Little mouse in a room size maze
Every way you turn is wrong
And the cheese stays ever far away
If only you could cimb the walls
Or find a map to help you
Your tiny legs are very tired
And your brain is overloaded
But you can’t stop, for if you do
You get the current’s tickle
ljm

I had a stroke on New Year’s Eve,
The night before my Birthday.
There were no candles on my cake
Or fireworks in my midnight sky.
No one sang Happy Birthday
As the helicopter flew me
To a distant place of healing.

I had a stroke on NewYear’s Eve.
It came to me on stealthy feet.
No sagging face or falling down.
The golden hour passed unnoticed;
Just a heavy arm and leg, to
Make me pause and wonder.
But then my hand picked up a pen.

I had a stroke on New Year’s Eve;
Discovered when the trembling hand
That held the pen no longer knew
The alphabet or how to form the letters.
When writing became micro dots
And repetition didn’t help
What once was sloppy, now unreadable.

I had a stroke on New Year’s Eve.
My life is changed forever.
I didn’t die, not paralyzed,
I got the finest care.
I will get back what I have lost
But with it comes a lifelong fear
Of another lurking in the shadows
ljm

Clouds like a tumble of opaque bubbles
Spread themselves across a sky
Slowly turning pink along the edges.
The air is cool and there is no wind
The only sound is Romeo the dog
Barking in the distance.
Am I not the only walker out here
In this very early autumn morning.

The crushed rock lawns
Do not make dew, so nothing
Sparkles in the streetlights
That never let the road be midnight.
There are no lights in any houses.
Are some of them abandoned,
Waiting for the snowbirds to
Make their winter landing and
Increase the population and
The traffic on the highway.

The air is growing colder now;
My hoodie is zipped half way up;
My hands are tucked inside the sleeves.
I will not miss the scorching heat
That fried three months of sweaty walks
When five A.M. was never cooler than high noon.
It won’t be long until the heavy duty
Jogging suit comes out of the closet
And I see my breath before my face.

Walking in all seasons is a learning curve
For one who only lived in Spring
With Summer the remaining months
And storms were cause for staying home.
I am mastering the days, as now
These roads and walkways know my tread.
ljm

Her writing tells the fateful truth:
Strings of letters that don’t make words
In a language no one ever learned,
So small as to look like microdots.

The hand that holds the reluctant pen
Feels normal til it tries to write,
And finds it doesn’t know the words
That are painfully born on the paper.

Practice only makes it worse
As disconnected muscles try
To learn again to make an A
And how the letters go together.

Her hand is weak and clumsy
The arm and leg feel heavy
Nothing does as it is told
By a brain now somewhat broken.

Back in second grade again
She practices her penmanship
And rows and rows of numbers
In hopes of graduation day.
ljm

The only child at the Easter Egg Hunt
Lacks a big enough basket
To collect the bounty all laid out
Across the rolling lawn

Those who were not allowed to run
Look sadly from outside the fence
Their empty baskets tossed aside
In hopelessness and envy.

Who painted all those pretty eggs
And who decides who gets to run
Why can’t those other little hands
Collect an egg or two

They can, you say.  Here’s two or three
For each of you, if you applaud
The Golden Child who smiles at all
In sympathy and pride

And tells you you will likely never
Be the one they choose to run
So be content with your two eggs
And never let your green eyes show.
ljm

Mindless of the wishes of the nation,
Ignoring what is right and good and proper,
Telling us that only you know what is best for us:
Christianity run amok for self aggrandizement.
Hell can’t possibly be hot enough for you, McConnell
              LJM

The way was steep and rocky
A cliff on one side and a drop on the other.
I had not worn my hiking boots,
They were too old and broken down
And I could not afford new ones.  
My flimsy little tennis shoes
Felt every stone and crevice.

The wind was colder than I thought
Against my light-weight summer jacket.
I had no mittens for my hands
So I kept them in my pockets.

The sun was out when I began
The air was warm and the wind was calm.
The path was smooth and leveled out
With lovely vistas to be had.
I strolled along among a crowd
Of friendly, cheerful people
Until the path began to rise
More steeply than the posters showed,
And folks began to drop out one-by-one,
Not willing to surmount the rocks
That cropped up in the winding way.

I had a need to see the top
So I kept taking one more step
And one more breath of mountain air.
Cheerfulness grew difficult
As bigger boulders blocked the path.
But there was always a way around,
Although the footing was unsure.

I once looked over the drop on my left
And was gripped by paralyzing fear;
But I feared more to end my quest

My feet were sore, my hands were cold;
My nose was red and running.
But I could see the banner at the top
And my name was written on it.
Suddenly I was not alone
And I was not a failure.
I did what others could not do
And did it on a shoestring.
I had no fancy gear or help.
I climbed that mountain on my own;
So don’t tell me what I can’t do.
ljm

What is all this tensile for
Nobodys coming here
Why is eggnog in the fridge
Who is there to cheer.

Why the mistletoe hung high
There is no one to kiss
Why the Christmas Carols play
When no one feels the bliss

Why no gifts beneath the tree
Why go to all this work
Because this party is for me
And you sound like a ****.
          ljm

Why is a glitter different than a glisten:
Evil eyes glitter with malice
Gentle eyes glisten with love.
Diamonds glitter, real or not
Opals glisten with a silken sheen,
The sun shining on the ocean glitters
The moon on a quiet lake glistens
Elizabeth Taylor Glittered
While Julie Andrews glistens.
There is no bridging word to use
One puts you in a meadow
And the other on a rocky shore
Which verb do I want to be
I never really could decide.
                ljm

Steel blue clouds are rumpled across
The morning sky, looking ever so much
Like an ocean ******* at low tide.
That’s not a color in my paintbox,
And I struggle hard to make a match,
Never quite succeeding.
The jagged mountains are a breeeze -
Black against the morning sky.
The desert landscape spread below
Defies the choosing of a tube or tubes
To mix the multitide of shades of gray.
It doesn’t matter anyway, I hear the thunder,
And see the flash that tells me
Rain will wet my canvas faster than
I Can pack it up and run for home
          ljm

Once upon a time  in a far away land
Of silken air and fragrant flowers
There lived a spirit bird with golden wings.
The song it sang was dragonflies
And dew drops on white lilies.

It flew in swooping arcs of joy
And floated on the crystal waters
Dreaming dreams of fleecy purple clouds
And meadows filled with poppies
Blooming in the morning sun.

In this land the air was still
And crisp as a fresh picked apple.
No wayward breeze disturbed the calm
Or rustled through the lacy trees
To blur the whispers of serenity.

The bird felt subtle longings for
Another time, another place
It knew it did not want to go.
A place of harsh realty
And ugly opportunities

Where nothing worked the way it should
And people failed on every hand
For only trying to exist.
There was no music, only growls
And the air was thick with worry.

Fighting back the urge to go
And try to somehow make things better
The mystic bird with gilded wings
Found it could no longer fly
And so the choice had been made for it

To stay among the music and the flowers,
In the golden summer light of yesterday.
             ljm

A week away from the TV set
Is the normal world still there?
Or has the madman burned it down
On his latest crazy tear.

We miss the roundup on the news
It’s different every night.
The elephant’s still cry witch hunt
While the donkeys do what’s right.

He’s angered every friend we have.
He doesn’t know a thing.
He never gives a single thought
To what his antics bring.

He kow-tows to our enemies,
He’d like to be like them
And rule with no one saying ‘stop’
To his next crazy whim.

He’s going to light a world wide fire
The middle class in flames
The wealthy standing by to watch
Like they were seeing games.

Hated by the civil world
He couldn’t give a toss
He wants a place in history
No matter what the cost.

He is already number one
In White House Loser’s polls.
He hopes to guarantee his place
With armies of red trolls.

If we don’t  show him the door
He’ll do what he does best
He’ll lead this country into war
And we’ll die with the rest.
                         ljm

My rope is stretched to a single thread
How did all the woven strands dissolve
The wind is howling in the attic and
My guardian angel is on vacation.

The furies do a Samba in my cortex
And my feet can only do a do-si-do.
The doorbell plays Westminster Chimes
But only ghosts are on the porch.

That Other Place sneaks up to grab me
I’m never sure if I’ll come back
I speak to air and reach for nothing
As I realize that I am back.
I never plan to be there, instead of here
But the minute concentration lags
I’m living in another place and life
If only for ten seconds - an eternity.

I struggle to remember where I was
And what I said and what I did and
Who was there, and what we spoke of
But it vanishes to make way for here.

It leaves me puzzled and afraid.
It happens to nobody else
And I’m alone in stormy skies
Without a light to guide me.  

Am I crazy?  Probably.
What is this place I visit?
I think it’s called insanity
And soon I fear I’ll live there.
                ljm

Across the street is our old home
But we don’t live there any more
Another couple starts their life
As we did many years before

It doesn’t look just as it did
They changed things here and there
They’re putting their brand on the place
And doing things we didn’t dare

Solar panels on the roof
The lawn an arid scene
They’re into Big Ecology
They will be living green

I thought to see it would be pain
The home I did not want to leave
But it no longer looks the same
So I no longer need to grieve

It’s just another pretty house
I have one of my own
Mine’s in a lovely desert place
That happily I now call home.
ljm

I PLAN TO DIE AT AGE 45
NO MATTER HOW MANY YEARS I’VE LIVED
-stolen

We’ve given our souls to Facebook
We naively took the hand
Of those who offered us candy
Laced with mind controlling words.

And we, like sheep, converged around
The lies and obfuscations,
Believing everything was true,
Ignoring shadows in the looking glass.

Everything keeps changing
But it always stays the same.
Those who see the stop signs
Are run down by those who don’t.

Our lives are full of ***** dishes
And our dreams are thick with dust.
The sun comes up, so we feel fine.
Who notices the storm clouds.

We worship at the small blue square,
Heeding the Siren’s deceptive song.
We offer up intelligence
On the altar made of midnight tweets.

Sleepwalker-like, we stumble on,
Convinced there is no cliff ahead,
That what the Judas Goat proclaimed
Will see us safely on our way.

We put up photos of our meals
And morph our face to kittens.
We have a thousand friended friends
But not a one who knows us.

We’ve sold our souls to the internet.
It cost us everything we had,
And now we can no longer see
We teeter on the precipice,
ljm

Am I the only one who has been unable to access HP for well over a week?  Was it HP - or my cranky ole Mac?
I felt like I had been dumped, naked and bleeding by the side of the road in a rainstorm.  Hyperbole?  Maybe, maybe not. I now know how to identify addiction.  I would seem to be hooked  The writing has piled up, so get ready for a deluge from Lori-Mack.

I set goals in my early childhood.
I was smart and pretty
And so I seemed unstoppable.

I wanted to be a singer
I have a songster’s soul
But I lacked an instrument.
I could carry a tune, alright,
But only in basket, not on
Angel’s lyric wings.

I wanted to be a movie star.
Drama coursed my veins like blood,
But every door I managed to open
Led only to a filthy casting couch.
And those with honorable intentions
Somehow never looked my way.

I wanted to be a game show winner
And I was lucky enough to be on three.
Won a car which I quickly sold
And parting gifts I still enjoy.
But quiz shows are a youthful  game
And skills diminish with the years.

I wanted to marry only once
And live happy ever after.
For 20 years I lived that dream
But time wore out the fantasy
And bad advice led me to ponder
And finally, sadly, walk away.

I wanted to be Mother of the Year.
I threw exciting Birthdays
Was chairman of the PTA
Never missed the least event
But when my Angel turned 14
She told me that I ruined her life
By telling her she was beautiful.

I wanted to greet the year two thousand
I counted up when I was ten to see
If I had a chance to live that long,
And it seemed that I could do it.
The computers did not crash and
I met a long time goal at midnight.

I wanted a 50-year Gold Watch
And a happy retirement dinner.
I labored faithfully towards that end
Even though the path became
A quagmire of racist hate and envy
And I was let go at year 48 with
No benefits of any kind.

I’ve given up on setting goals
There’s just one left I want to meet.
I want to live a century
And list one hundred as my age.
I think that I can pull this off -
I’ll stubbornly just refuse to die.
ljm

Too sad to cry
Too weary to care
Too worn-out to try again

Too stubborn to quit
Too stupid to fall
To give up and call it a day

Too needy to give
Too loath to receive
Too desolate to have any hope

Too angry to smile
Too bashful to sing
Too depleted to ever recover

Too hungry for notice
Too often passed over
Too much like the papered wall

Too late to the party
Too far back in line for the prizes
Too early to be forced to leave.
                      ljm

The toilet roll is narrowed by at least an inch
The kleenex box is shorter too.
The tuna can is lighter by an ounce
And applesauce has followed suit.

They take some costly spices out-
Call it improved and new.
The fancy wrapper doesn’t hide
That this is only one big *****.

They want to keep the prices low
At least that’s what they say
It’s all to pad their bottom line
And we’re the ones to pay.

A stylist says that less is more-
That may be true with art
But when it comes to merchandise
It stabs you in the heart.

Nothing lasts past warranty-
It’s obsolete next week
There is no point repairing it
The bottom will still leak.

The Doctor has no time for you
His patient list is endless
Insurance pays him less and less
That’s why for tests he sends us.

We all complain and grumble on
But yet we pay their prices
We need to get a rumble on
And cut their scams in slices.

We need to knock upon their door
And bang upon their table
We need to stomp upon their floor
As hard as we are able.

Then maybe can size once again
Will fit the recipe
And we can live with things that fit
No matter what the fee.
ljm

Last night I woke up terrified
Of a visage by my bed
A ghost perhaps?
Do I believe in ghosts?
I never thought I did.
But who’s been poking
My shoulder while I sleep
And moving my big toe.
Where’s the label
From my special water jar?
No one took it
But still it’s gone.
Who moves things
Once they’re put down.

This all sounds like la-la land
But I don’t think I’m crazy
But last night the strangeness
Filled the air
And I was terrified for real.
My pounding heart
Was not a fake
Or maidenly hysteria.
I’m far too practical for that.

So what was that beside my bed
Masculine in form, unmoving,
Not quite opaque or shimmering,
Gone the instant I spoke out,
Crying “I just saw him!”
And sleep was just a memory for hours.

What was it?
I don’t know.
Was it real?
Who can say.
Will it return?
I certainly hope not.
Have I gone bonkers?
I don’t think so.
Am I puzzled?
You can bet your life on that.
    ljm

Tuesday morning at Four A.M.
Gramma Smith turns over in bed,
Awake too early once again.
Her replaced hip complains
And a cramp hides behind her knee
And must be stretched and sent away

Fifteen minutes of not finding comfort
Informs her that it’s time to get up.
Legs hanging over the edge of the bed,
She searches the darkness for strength,
Knowing the minute she stands upright
Her back will seize and shriek with pain.

It only lasts a little while
Then settles into a bearable ache
As she shambles to the Loo
Before she can embarrass herself
With leakage she cannot control
The way she could when young.

Dry and on her feet again
She finds the way to her desk,
Blinking in the sudden light
From two lamps that fight each other
To chase away the shadows
That would make it hard to see.

Picking up her favorite pen
She starts to write a verse.
It grows quickly as she settles in
The chair that knows her shape so well,
And ink flows at a satisfying pace
To catch the words that tumble out.

But what she writes is this:

     Where are all the butterflies
     And Humming Birds of my youth.
     Where are the lacy Sweet Peas
     And the taste of lemonade.

     Where has all the music gone
     And groups of words that soar.
     Where are all the Chickadees
     And fleecy clouds at dawn.

She lays her pen aside and sighs.
The glamour that was living, pales
And leaves a morose gray behind.
Her words are serviceable at best,
And all the new ideas are old.
So she gets up and limps away

To where the kitchen still respects her touch,
And french toast is a panacea for her soul.
She searches for the words that would not come
And sips hot cocoa in vain hope
That there will be a reason to go on
And so the gun stays safely in the drawer.
                         ljm

Cobras of the desert
Copperheads and Rattle Snakes
Never seen in coiled up form.
Multi-jointed, multi-colored,
Listen to their clickety
Clack clack rattle
As they slither quickly
Across the scorching desert
In segments one mile long.

Their tracks are almost hidden
Beneath the scrubby sagebrush
Baking in the sun beside Route 66
And arcing off across the sand
In every which direction.

They scar the empty wasteland
In a spider web design
That goes on until forever,
And meets itself at
Precise angles
In the burning emptiness.

Serpents of the God of Commerce,
Following the tracks of others.
Kaleidoscope of moving patterns,
Always changing, still the same.

Cobras of the desert
Never rearing up to strike,
Fleeing as if somehow startled ,
Never turning back, they fly
Off to unknown times and places
Leaving flaming desert sands behind.
ljm

I have no use
For the military Boys
Prancing around
With their nuclear toys.

I have no use
For the heads of state
Ignoring the climate
‘Til it’s too late.

I have no use
For Supreme Court Judges
Bending the law
To their personal grudges.

I have no use
For the lovers of Trump
I have a nice lake
Into which they can jump.

I have no use
For the trolls I attract
Attack all you want
I’ve never yet cracked.
             ljm

After a long, frustrating sojourn in the wilderness of error 500, the light has come back on and we can see each other again.  Eliot has conquered the dragon and the Holy Grail is within our ken once more.  Odes of joy and thankfulness spring forth from the fertile pens of the faithful.  Thank you, Eliot, and don’t you DARE do that again with no warning.  Some of us almost bled to death.
                                                           ljm

My little plot is
Shared with nothing else
Alive and growing.
I struggle
But I somehow survive
In a sprawling field
With all my many brothers,
Each with their own
Similar sized space,
All reaching for the
Seldom falling drops
That mean we live or die
In this Mojave land
Of blazing sun,
Where nothing moves
But two-hundred car
Container trains
Pulled by four orange engines.
I am the King of
Thirty-six square feet
Of gravel, rock and sand
Nothing that intrudes
Will live for very long
Because I put my roots down first
And any rain that falls
Is mine.
                 ljm

Desolation
All the should-haves stacked like prison walls
Make it impossible to see the sky
What was big is now too small and
Cannot hold the folly on it’s way to bury us.
Crippled by the scorch, it won’t be possible
To rearrange ourselves out of this crisis.

Desperation
Incapable of letting go the few nice things
That beautified our former lives,
We know the tide is rising and we will sink
Beneath the weight of all the detritus we clutch,
Paying triple for the privilege of watching
As we drown in bad decisions and remorse.

Depression
Midnight tears that vanish in the arid air,
Stifled sobs that can’t repair the breach
Or heal the wounded vision of tomorrow
That inches ever closer, in the waking hours
Once designated as the time for sleep
Now put to dreary use as time for weeping.

Denigration
Too pale for the blazing sun but briefly,
We cower in the no less burning shade
And guard the meagre treasures of our lifetime,
Heaped in unmarked cartons in the corner
Where they wait for designation to the dump
Or hauled off piecemeal to a resale place

Denouement
We could have seen that this would happen
And lanced the hoarder’s boil before it broke.
It would have been so less expensive
In the pocketbook and in the soul
But here we sit at midnight crying
As catastrophe knocks on the door.
                                        ljm

Wrapped around by dawning
cotton candy clouds,
I turn and turn
to scan them all.
Squadrons of Starlings
punctuate the quiet
as the crooked moon
decides it’s time to maybe set.

On a gravel hill that
overlooks a minor wasteland,
I selfishly enjoy
a time that’s mine alone;
reminding one who felt
hard-done-by,
that in reality she
rolled the dice
and won.
     ljm

Several poets have told me
That I wear the wrong hat;
I should be a journalist
And let it go at that.

That I should write who-what-when-where
And put it out as news
And turn my eye to everyday
And pay the newsman’s dues.

I can’t put my quill pen down
And give up making rhyme.
I have vistas in my soul
That snare me every time.

Though I dance among the fairies
My words create brick walls
Devoid of hollyhocks and lace
When answering the calls

That urge me to take pen in hand
And share what moves my heart.
The need to see reality
Will doom me from the start.

I won’t wear a reporter’s hat
The double yous can rot.
I’ll keep searching for the elves
Whether finding them or not.
ljm

A hundred and seventeen by day
Cools to ninety overnight
No relief but the shower stall.
Humidity at sixty-five
Mixed with sweat for a nasty soup.
Cold water from the tap is warm.
The shade no cooler than the sun.
Trapped in Air Conditioned caves,
It’s hunker down and find a way
To forge a path though ninety days.

Why does anybody even try
To live in this forsaken place.

Bcause it’s lovely in the Winter.
The gorgeous skies are like no other
With clouds that tumble into billows
Of fantastic size and shape.
The Craggy mountains circle round
In jagged homage to the sky,
And sunrise is excelled by none.
In March wildflowers explode in bloom.
Along the streets and in the fields
Where little bunnies hide in bushes.
And tiny lizards scurry by.
The air is clean and brisk and new
And snowbirds make their yearly trek
Infusing new and different views.

That’s the Yang to scorching Yin
That keeps us here, content to be.
ljm

There is an addictive beauty in sadness
It’s easy to get hooked on pain
It’s a one-way street to depression
With no way to get out again.

You feel so good after crying
You sometimes must invent a good reason
There’s some kind of comfort in sighing
It gets you through Holiday Season

The craving for sorrow is endless
It lures like a velvety shroud
That shields from the world’s melancholy
When the ache begins keening out loud.

A funereal smile may be moving
And earn you a pitying hug
But Somehow you must forswear Anguish
And stop yourself craving this drug.
ljm

Is this going to be another joke-
A shiny nickel welded to the floor
So when I bend to pick it up
A paddle whacks me from behind.

Will this turn out to be a whoopee cushion
Hidden underneath my chair
So when I proudly take my seat
The room erupts in cruel laughter.

Will I put forth a major effort,
Break my back and heart in trying,
Only to find the load’s too heavy
For me to ever hope to lift it,

Too complicated to untangle,
Too precise for my small skills,
A recipe for certain failure
If I dare to take that step.

Doubts and fears are ***** traps
That I must circumvent to win
And if I find that I can do it
I can be the hero of my life.
    ljm

Standing atop the pile of ****
The’ve heaped on me for years,
I am not buried in it. Even
The soles of my warrier boots are clean.

My righteous coating still holds fast
And everything they throw at me
Richchets to land as notes
On their St. Peter score card.
       ljm

My hours are filled with business
To camouflage the gloom
That fills my mind with dizziness
At my oncoming doom.

There’s no way to turn the tide
I’d jumped off the dock.
I should have found a place to hide
Behind a nice safe rock.

In truth, I didn’t really jump
Someone came up behind
And gave my back a mighty thump
How could I have been so blind.

I always knew they hated me
And wished that I would die.
But I was where I had to be
To get my family by.

The water’s deep and I am cold.
I have no choice but to swim
I wish that I were not so old
But I will still show them.

I see the shore not far away
Much prettier than here.
It promises a brighter day
And living without fear.

I know that I can swim that far
And I’ll have the last laugh
When I excel in my new life
To spite that hateful staff.
ljm

Flocks of birds
Across the morning sky
Tell me
I’m not in the city any more.
             ljm

I thought that I had cried enough
But I was sadly wrong.
Full thirty years was way too short
To cure the injuries I caused.

A tear can only heal so much.
It takes a torrent to begin
To wash away the kind of hurt
That flares up on a random day.

It takes the peaceful weeks between
To make the pain more sharply felt
When it comes back, tied to a word,
A song or photograph.

It takes an education
To learn how to make a smile
Across a face that’s etched in sorrow
And convince the world it’s real.

It takes a will to lift the load
And carry it another day,
When there is nothing but more days
And tears that need to fall ahead.

I thought that I had cried enough
But I was so mistaken.
There is no sign that says you’re done
And you are free to go now.
ljm

I don’t know where it went
  I just know it’s gone
    I don’t know how it happened
      I just know I did it
        I don’t know what it even was
          I just know I miss it
            I don’t know where to go to find it
              I just know I have to try
                             ljm

Why is Omni suddenly unable to post???
He got this message:

Forbidden (403)
CSRF vrification failed.  Request aborted.

What is this all about and why did it happen?
Hey, Algorithm guys...how about an answer?
Lets get one of our primo contributors up and running again.

I used to be the prettiest girl in the room
And usually the smartest
I was the queen of reparte'
And good at almost everything

I used to always get
The biggest piece of cake,
And the seat nearest the front
Was always saved for me.

I used to juggle seven ***** at once
While keeping ten plates spinning on their poles
And dancing to the latest beat
Dressed up in next year’s fashions.

I used to keep track of everything
I had my finger on the pulse
Of what was new and meaningful
And helped to make it real.

I used to write enduring verse
That awed them when I read it
I wrote of Hollyhocks and love
In words that time could not erase.

I used to visualize today,
No longer beautiful or smart
And wonder how I’d face the world
And make my way across it.

I used to be what I’m now not
So when I make a smaller splash
I find it’s nice to not get soaked
Therefore I’m happy to be me
ljm