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Dave Robertson Mar 2020
There were these moments when you’d remember something I’d forgotten
Or blotted from my memory
Often highly embarrassing episodes where I’d exposed my clear ineptitude
And you’d lead me back through them, laughing,
Walking in the gardens of my shame and naming all my
Clear inadequacies until you creased with tears in your eyes

And you’d think I’d hide
But it was love
and I miss you

You’d quite often leave a small amount of liquid
In every glass you drank from
So that every time I picked it up in a hurry I’d hurl it
Onto my trousers, or sofa
Or the pile of letters you’d refused to open and I’d curse and rankle
Wishing you would just tip things down the drain

And you’d think I would go insane
But it was love
and I miss you

And when you pulled the duvet round yourself to make the perfect
Bed based sausage roll and I shivered through
The night because despite the fact I’m twice your size
You had a vicelike grip that would never
Once
Slip

I’m ill-equipped to deal with the real of you being gone

I pace the places that you were and get lost a lot

But not lost like we used to when you’d tell me it was just around the corner
And I’d point to the fact that the century had provided me
With an infinite map in my pocket
And you told me “**** it, let’s just go this way and see what we see.”
And we’d end up in some seedy part of town with some ****** staring me down and you’d hide behind me laughing
And we’d have to run for it, me with these knees

And you think that I’d go mad at you
And tell you that you wind me up
And tell you that I’ve had enough and you can figure you own **** out from now on

And now you’re gone
And it was love
and I miss you
no diminution in tiredness arose
gnome hatter how off tin ma dis bows
Zoe let his bot tee succumb,
     via mental application

     of autogenic phrases
     and/or counting crows
cuz upon awakening,
     aye immediately wanted ta doze,

thus this artful dodger hankered to expose
extreme cockamamy idea incumbent,
     where corporeal essence gets froze
zen, the scientific procedure named

     emergency preservation
     and resuscitation (EPR)
     more familiarly known
     as suspended animation

     pursuant under the appellation cryogenics,
     where living tissue no longer grows
old, a wishful yearning
     approximating immortality i sup hose,

yet this copacetic drowsy
     generic human struggled in vain
     trying with utmost effort to stay awake
     Swiss to hobnob among urbane

feeling helpless (fearing
     he might be narcoleptic),
     nonetheless aye didst train
intent concentration

     (and/or feeble exertion mustered)
     to swat away worrisome thought
     this hypochondriac,
     could be afflicted with mononucleosis

since lassitude less likely sprung
     from overcast and rain
knee skies, which type weather
     generally energies me
    
to conjure a quatrain
sometimes complex versus
     written straight away plain
panacea hit upon finally

     to ward off sleepiness,
     whereby literary endeavor
     boosted by a strong brew
namely fair trade

     manufactured coffee chew
zing among socially conscious entities,
     and hoping to do
some dollop of positivity

     without fanfare I eschew
to fulfill personal hue
man conscientious anonymous impact
     that some benefit will en sue.
Asominate Feb 2018
They always leave,
A re-occurring curse,
Cry on my own sleeve
Oh yes,
Trust me,
It hurts,
But,
What could I do
When the one who always leaves is you,
What could say?
If you're not even hear?
You've gone away.
My quotidian
the days go by in pleasant routine
only occasional disturbances
     with grandkids  unexpected visitors
     the mailman ringing at the door
          because the letter would not fit the box
     the neighbor asking for a favor gladly granted
     someone who wants to sell some things

the days go by
      preparing meals  go shopping
      splitting the firewood
      running the wash
      checking the email
      go swimming and do AquaFit
      occasionally have a lunch with friends

the days go by

and I occasionally wonder
about the undesired goal of passing all that time
as days go by
quotidian chores household sports friends routine end timepassing
Lucius Furius Aug 2017
It's not any great tragedy but the mundane,
the quotidian, which taxes me:
haircuts, shaving, the mowing of lawns;
leaf-raking, tooth-brushing, driving to work;
taking out the garbage, matching socks;
flossing, timesheets, getting gas for the car....

I long to be forced to flee at night,
all wits and energy required just to survive.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_078_taxes.MP3 .
when we consider
    in one of the rare quiet moments
    of our hurried hectic times
what keeps us busy throughout all our days
we may discover that there is not much beyond quotidian chores
    that occupies our schedule
the job,  career, the family, the children
     mow the lawn, chat with the neighbors,
     go to worship,  bowling,  Sunday school
     etc., etc.

small time we give to figuring out the meaning of it all

what is it that we want
    when we have reached the peak of our career
    when our kids have left the house
     live elsewhere without need for our care
what is it that is left
    to strive for and achieve

pragmatically speaking
it may be useful to become alert
and contemplate such matters
    alongside our busy years
at least some time before
we find ourselves
close to the edge
that points us into different spheres

— The End —