But there’s always laundry to be done
To do more, I slowly lose the will
All this laundry will never be done

This morning to the river, thought I’d be gone
To catch a big trout is a great thrill
But there’s always laundry to be done

I’m your captive, laundry, consider the battle won
Folding and folding, the monotony kills
All this laundry will never be done

Sometimes I think I’ll escape this prison
Wearing what? If all my clothes are at goodwill...
But there’s always laundry to be done
All this laundry will never be done

Down in the valley
Where the times are fast,
Lived a girl longing to be
Where the land is vast.

She was made of wildflowers,
And carved of a little stone.
Out in the wilderness
Was where she felt most at home.

She’d roam through the forest,
And through the tall pine trees;
The beauty of the land
Spanned far as eye could see.

One day the girl awoke
Her wildflowers withered so,
The feeling gone on the left
For what reason? She didn't know.

They told her not to worry,
And “there’s not much we can do,
Just try to get some rest—
All will be good as new.”

She waited and rested
Months went by without change
They finally told her,
“We need an MRI of your brain.”

After all the tests were over
With nine spots found on the scan,
“It’s MS,” they concluded.
And then treatment began.

Back into the wilderness
She fled to be alone,
Mourning her withered wildflowers
Which had once been overgrown.

Whilst gazing at the mountain peaks
She heard nature’s soft decree,
Reminding of the stone in her
Making her stronger than disease.

So back to the valley,
Went the girl made of flowers
Returning to the wilderness
When she was in need of her power

A torrent flows
       tumultuously toward the sea.
Tales recounting of
       rivers run and rapids
Swum. Awaiting the arrival
       of the untamed.
Wolves wander
       with her. Reclaiming
Untouched wilderness,
       which waits for our return.

After all the things
He spent with me… I was
Never a note — a flower — only
A brief connecting flight.
I am not the type
Clinging to security — yet —
What once were fingers
On delicate hand, are
Crooked — Clawing.
Howbeit his snake coiled,
Relents its wring. And slow release…
Relieves my grief.

I have some wisdom I must impart,
It will save you from an aching heart:

Don’t fall for merely words of praise;
Actions speak louder than accolades.
Although looks are what draw you in,
Beauty should be deeper than skin.
Jests and musings are well and fine,
But gentleness soothes every time.
Lies—deceit, will find you often,
Ensure your instincts are sharpened.
Only time can tell if things will last;
Always leave the past in the past.
Here I’ll leave a parting shot,
Recall this when you feel distraught:
You are stronger than you could know,
When put to the test your strengths show.
Be true to heart, no matter what;
When life gets down, pick your chin up.
So, go! Don’t forget to be brave,
I’ll always be proud of you, Little Grace.

Pines, loyal pines, endless pine sentinels
In this forest with loneliness and me.
Giving refuge to my thoughts, pains, of growth
Reminding of the strength which lies within
Wondering if the sentinels, in their
Glory, question the ascension toward sky.
Blessed are the flourishers growing without
query. They shall be conquerers of life.
In the station of pines, strength beseeches
The weary. Their convalescent I’ll be.
A world without the wilderness invites
Tempests to rage, forgetting the nature
Lying cast away. Allowing the known
To dictate volitions of hearts’ desire
Waiting for seasons’ return to the pines.

With cunning love, you inspire me to write
How I hate the way you invade my mind,
Wandering endlessly both day and night
Always dreaming of your deep, azure eyes.
Let me compare you to a blizzard storm:
Heaping adorations tossed from the sky,
Flurries of affection define your terms
Melting away when winter’s times passed by.
A constant shower of flowers, and notes,
Confessions of love, more flattery still,
Of undying passion— for me— you gloat
Disappears when the prize is moved uphill.
Although you wrote me nine hundred sonnets,
’Twas not me you loved, but writing sonnets

A hard hit.
      
        Smoke hangs
low, slowly slithering
       from a cracked smile.
Her vexed and vacant
       visage is frozen
for a moment...

and her glossy eyes, glazed
      with frigid gloom, dilate.
Expelling expired air
      she hacks in exoneration,
as if some spirit's
       clutch surrendered
her soul, shaking
       her skeletal frame
in a passionate
       fit of unbridled hate.

She relaxes in her recliner...

       relief.

If there is no dirt in the pockets, washing no sooner enables a selection of the same thing neater. If there is no kneeling or skidding or tattering there is no reason for making the exchange. A messy occasion makes the long climb worthwhile. Habitual, mandated, stains the ordered chaos of it all.