Accepting
and preparing myself
to experience
my body becoming older
and my ******-functions diminishing
towards death
brings me peace of mind.

Accepting
that my body will probably become sick
into the future,
and preparing myself
to experience the sickness
and improve my health,
brings me peace of mind.

Bread from waxed paper packet
a childhood memory of mum making tea
snow white, thick sliced
fringed with a brown crust
comfortingly heavy, ****** smelling
the butter pleases me
covered under the tub lid
with a coated paper peeled back
to reveal a thick golden slab of
churned cream easily spread, cold
straight from the fridge onto waiting
fibrous surface, allowing it to sink in
cheese in a yellow block, related to
the butter in so many ways, dairy
a long lost brother, sliced thick with
a proper knife with the pointed curved
tip, designed to ***** and pick up
each slice, placing carefully on the bed
prepared for it to rest, ready for the final
ochre coloured element, mustard, from
a glass jar using a teaspoon, to dollop
before resting a second buttered slice
on top to make a creation, a taste sensation

There you are,
You pile of steaming hot crap,
I knew you were watching me,
And so I was on the lookout,

Why do you always turn up,
At the most inopportune time?,
Can't you see I'm busy?,
Can't you see I'm content?,

you sneak around leaving black sludge,
Shovelling despair and anguish into my bag,
Making it heavier as the minutes drift,
So heavy, I can't carry it much further,

I see you,I saw you and yet,
There's sweet FA I can do about it,
Other than crouch down and endure the deluge,
So bring it, let's have it,

Because, when you're done,
I may be broken, but alive,
I will be on my knees to be sure but,
I will always get up.. Always......

(C) eileenmcgreevy@ymail.com 06/05/2019

It may be a truism but optimists cant escape it....
No one is right all of the time.
The only difference there has ever been is the frequency between  being wrong and right.

When an optimist falls in the woods only the pessimists will notice.

If I made a poem that sang to the seas
and whispered to the winds,

Would the winds remember what was whispered?
And when I sang to the seas, should they see the secrets sunk into my subconscious?

The winds won't ever wander where I once have.
The seas never will stare solemnly at the stormy sky.

Seems that it is worthless.

white pages before me
pure as snow

no mark, no scratch
no story to show

page after page
waiting to be used

patient, at peace
excited, and amused

each page a day
of the future world

anticipating the time
when their purpose will unfold

who will be a part of them?
everyone but those yet to be

who will enjoy them most?
the people who now get ready