five moments
in nine years
i felt like a poet

Hold catches charity chastising morning
Forenoon sees sanctity assigning shame,
But no one caught evening whispering secrets
For that was midnight who shouldered the blame.
Shall she wear criticisms chill of morning?
Is she entitled as spokesman of throng?
Savouring rumours that snicker from new light
Or roaring, pedantically, dark dawns song.
Such is the chorusing catcall of caution
Such the disharmony ebbing from soul
Coughing suspicions embedded in discord
Entrusting it all to a miscreant’s fold.

M.
30 March 2020

~for the wild child, daughter, wife, mother~



I am drifting into the tender part of the night, when deceit is pointless, and I argue with conviction within myself that in our lives that it will never be too late, but I know I contradict my prior musing...somewhere between the fact that time is a wasting commodity, precocious and precious, lives this idea within, that there is nothing that cannot be navigated, recompensed,  even forgiven...

the argument goes on, the tide of battle switching back and forth, and for now I must be satisfied with the meagerness of I can’t give up, be at ease by acknowledging defeat, not just yet, and the fast arrival of a clean slate is a chance, a draw, a ticket to ride, and,

reaching

is a wonderful idea, full of compromise, out and in, extra effort, and tomorrow I may yet teach one of us, even myself, by reaching inside of what churns within, and then have the perfect words you require, for a desperate need, and a comforting that comes forth easily