Blessed Sunday

“Have yourself a blessed Sunday!”

Is what I hear from morning till evening

What’s the use of the day being blessed

When night comes and you neglected feeding your stomach?

What good is a day blessed when your thoughts grow wear and troubled

As yesterday and the day before?

Your wife left you, dragging your child along,

Claiming you’re ineffectual

Incapable of nourishing them both;

Your father falls off his stool drunk

Muttering about what life has befallen him;

Your brother neglects you’re alive,

It’s just you alone caring after the wretched, dejected homestead.

Plenty of times you thought of taking your own life,

But you couldn’t—you can’t stand the sight of blood

The night ends eventually, making way for dawn’s approach:

It’s a Monday,

But still your neighbors smile at your misery

Wishing you a blessed Sunday.

Imagine that!

memories of . . .

I wasn’t going to write you anymore love songs,

but I know I do still;

I wasn’t going to sing to you no more

But nibble on my earlobe

then tickle my ribs

and you know I will melt for you.

I’m tired, weary and strained

from losing you day after day

this heart needs a home

I wish it was you,

yes, it should have been you.

You say I don’t talk too much

you mentioned that I’d rather play with words

than sing you a lullaby,

but words is all I have

this space, this moment in time,

memories of you and what we once had

is all I have tonight.

I’d like to let you know that my latest book FATHER’S LAND is available as kindle, paperback and hardcover on Amazon.

Shed

Annie Spratt

I would shed these leaves one after the other

From the stem, and each one fall

To my feet while I mutter sonorously:

“She loves me, she loves me not.”

Even when I’m done shedding each leaf

Off the tree, my feet covered in heaps

Of dead leaves, there is still no telling

That you will return back to me

Nothing in life stays certain

Not even the leaves on this tree.

November Ends

I’ve got plenty of shit on my mind

But I don’t know who to trust

It’s the end of the month today, except

Unlike REM, I don’t feel fucking fine

I’m hoping on the world ending tonight

Someone ought to light a match to the fuse

Maybe that will force me to quit thinking too much too soon

I worry too much, thinking about my accomplishments—whatever they might have been—since the start of the year,

Don’t you find yourself doing that often, especially when the year draws to an end?

You wonder if you did much or less compared to the previous year . . .

God knows, everybody—myself included—would love to scratch 2020 off my Bingo card,

I wonder also, come late November, 2022,

Would I still remember this still I’m writing today

Or would this site have shut down my then, and who knows, I would have moved on to working on something else.

The future scares me—I’ve got chills thinking about it . . .

Yet here I am, walking into it. Anybody out there gonna stop me?