Poems · writing

Benign Morality

How can someone love a stunted bloom?

Same way the sun says goodnight to the moon,

Same way a dish can run away with a spoon

Differences are celebrated, but aren’t they often charged?

The moon was too shy to say hello to the sun,

And Dish often wondered whether it were Fork with which Spoon would rather run

Nuances in these “what if’s” are rather pointless, though the rate at which they’re indulged in have the potency to ruin a day, week, year.

The bloom will cry over her crooked stem, shed tears over her fallen petals but then,

What can she do?

All things grow, despite the rain,

The world finds a way to bounce back again

Every Saturday morning I see the moon in the sky, blushing sweetly at the sun as he waves her goodnight

Dish told Spoon every one of her fears, and last I heard they’ve been happy for years

The bloom is still stunted, and she smiles sadly, but last time I saw her, she looked a little taller, and her petals will come back gradually

Poems · Uncategorized

Rosemary, for Remembrance

Ophelia’s flowers have gone.

Broken, faded, her smile is twisted, she sings a mad bird’s song.

“Oh my love, oh my day, come and take my life away. I’ve waited under this wretched moon, and now the cold dark calls so soon.

I’ll go floating, my stern upended, flowers strewn and love suspended

under the willow tree I talked of so; now, sweet fawn, feels long ago.”

She glides across the empty stage, oblivious in her maddened haze

“Don’t you love to hear midnight laugh?”

Her own falls out twinkling, a sound as daft

For the midnight she sees, leering down in her dreams

Flying, humming, twirling around the room, she stops.

It might be over soon.

Gentle and modern, choked up and sodden

She’s broken her

(Chissit, chassit)

Brown woven basket

Petals scatter to the floor

And Ophelia doesn’t smile anymore.