Take it from me
There’s not much to see
In this garden with few sunny days

No prize winning flowers
Sprouting upward like towers
For invited guests to amaze

But when I come home
To a house all alone
I’m glad that my yard goes

To humble blossoms
Daffodils lined in rows
And a spot where tulips have arose

It's where I go to unwind
Achieve peace of mind
And escape a day of lows

So I’m sure you’ll agree
There’s not much to see
In this garden for guests to amaze

But this garden is fine
Because it is mine
Where I happily spend all my days

Fireflies shine over the midnight world
Testament to creation unfurled , Angelic
orbs that kindle the glow of young thoughts
Loves first kiss forever held in our precious heart
Writing our emotions in the twilight tapestry
The promise of forever carved on a moonlit
'Oak tree tablet' for all eternity
Holding on to one another on a Summer porch
swing , a journey through the Heavens on a
song filled evening

Getting old will **** you

And
  
Dying isn’t good for your health

But

Don’t trouble yourself

Unless

You are one of the two

A poem by Bapcha           7

I am lost in the forest
        Of your hair,
You sleep as the dream awakens,
        Darkness turns to light

The sun dawns over you,
               Over me,
   The day gives birth to us.

Today the snow falls softly
Like the feathers
in what was our duvet.
Now it is only mine.

A morning sky grey
as grey as
your new headstone.
The house has found
a louder silence
One that is deafening.

I know you are at peace
Away from awful pain.
But you promised me
a thousand forevers.
a million eternities.

Now in the misty snowfall
of a sad grey winter.
I know your chair
will sit empty.
Your books unread
Your music unplayed
And my heart unfixable

Lying on my death bed
Standing on the brink
How would I feel?
What would I think?

Would I feel regret
For the things that didn't get done?
Or was my life complete
Filled with family love and fun?

I wish I wasn't leaving you
I wish that I could stay
My love for you can never die
Lasting forever and a day

When the time has come
When my last breath I'll take
I'll know the love we had was real
Something we never had to fake

I'll wait for you in heaven
Outside the pearly gate
Being together for eternity
Has always been our fate

The thaw begins with a drip,
builds to a roar, subsides to sunlight
prisms playing over every surface

illuminating still-wet velvet wings
maroon and yellow, neon blue
pseudo-bark underneath.

In the clear-cut, pink fireweed
pierces a sky alive with souls
reveling in their last year on earth

sampling nectar with newly curled
tongues while summer degrades
to fall, burrowing in the cool

damp cord of fir put up for winter
awakening in spring, tasting summer
before the reprieve, too soon over

time come to fold
battered wings, to slip free
of this mourning cloak and rise.

There had been a clearing in thick
of the old forest behind our houses
where we nailed pieces of wood,
stolen from neighbors yards,
to a nearby oak tree and climbing
up, up, up, about twenty feet,
to the lowest of the branches,
looked out over the gray roofing
of the houses and could see
the world from our secret perch,
feeling it then but not quite
yet understanding;

it would be better to have
never come down.

The days blur perilously close
to each other now.
The alcohol does not help;
helps other things.
Blunt force trauma has
swelled and colored
the gulf of skin beneath my eye,
hindering sight.
Disgust awaits the mirror;
a child shading in the
contusions of my face
with the wrong colors;
purples, sickly yellow.
Knowing how it should,
but doesn’t, look.

Faces of friends seem
to slip further away,
this memory failing
as cells burn and pop
atop the frying pan of chemicals
that I have become.
The drugs do not help;
help other things.
A tile floor, a dimming light.

Naked, she is a stranger,
and I am overflown
with nausea, apathy;
some thick welling of revulsion
pitted in the gut that I pray
is only toward her
This hatred does not help;
only any good for the writing,
ironic, unsure if there will
be a writer much longer,
anyway.

Another gray, black-eye sunrise,
******* and insomniac,
awake as the earth spins again onward
into the mutable mass of gas and plasma.
How many of them must there be?
The number will rise up
into the trillions, they say,
as the top continues its turn;
dizzying now and incomprehensible.
The sun bigger and bigger
slowly each time, growing
until this small marble
is overtook by some
dystopian beachballl of fusion
and fission, blistering away with
such anger; imbalance.

Hungover, contemplating ends,
I think the bullet may be alright;
regarded as painless if aimed well.
Imagining split-second blitzkriegs
of neural discomfort prior
to blackness, I dismiss the thought.
The sun is up fully now, stretching.
Red giants, they say are cooler
than their white counterparts,
but larger.

All the fights, from the bar
to the battlefield.
All the love, from the brothel
to the bedroom.
All the life, progress, movement,
everything and nothing;
muted by colliding hydrogen particles
emitting heat.
Is it so terrible to be irrelevant?