It isn’t for all Of course Because some are at their ends Today and every day But there are yet others Who will And must Go on
Retrospection is in season Of course Little endings prompting looking back And thoughts of how to do better moving forward But most of us will simply Go on as we have been Regretting doing so a little Until we forget that we were doing that Again
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Sitting with cups of coffee ready to hand While the birds have barely begun their chorus And other creatures stalk near-silent Through the lifting darkness I read I write Neither as much as I might like Both as much smiling as remains in me
I am a thief And prodigal Taking more such moments for me than is likely my due Spending them frivolously and to no good end But I have asked no inheritance Even if I might have to herd swine And I am the elder brother, anyway
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The break was good With lots of food And friendly company But there’s a price It won’t be nice To pay, I expect to see
Paperwork is never-ending. Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com
The work goes on When I will don My holiday attire And piles rise Before my eyes Atop my desk yet higher
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I imagine they thought they were being helpful Those programmers Putting in the new features that Suggest ideas from which to write Because writer’s block is a thing And it does beset all of us who Fix words in order Sometimes
So I’m sentimental about some things… Photo by Josh Willink on Pexels.com
But And there is always a but And there is almost always a butt And sometimes it is what voices the Things you hear I wonder who they think Those programmers Their target audience is Who they think will use this platform And to what end Who will be different from them Because we all know We All Know That the only worthwhile knowledges are How to code And How to get their money And Anyone who does anything else Really can’t be that smart
All this is to say Having a spur is useful But sometimes You’re not riding a horse
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Tell us one thing you hope people never say about you They said As if there are not many things As if they have not already been said Many times by Many mouths in Many places And my own mouth is among them
I’m surprised it’s not a cat… Photo by Noelle Otto on Pexels.com
No ioperamide stems that tide That flows regardless of the moon From me And surges out Drowning rather than uplifting Swelling too often ungently
But if one piece of flotsam Buoys up unwanted It does not do to call it out It is rude to point out the flaws of others Where yet others can see No, you tell your friend in private that They’ve got something in their teeth Just there– It’s not like a badge or anything
No I don’t think I’ll say anything to answer Besides It’s not like there’s any lack of ideas
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The old adage holds One bad apple Spoils the bunch And we are told again and again That we ought to listen to the wisdom of those who came before Who know more Who didn’t grow up with social media And so they know the score
How millennial! Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com
But when we apply the lessons We continue to be held to blame Told that they’re not all the same That it’s a falsely made lack of fame And if they had done what they were told to start with There would never have been a problem
What was that man doing So Very Wrong That the cop Should Have carried around A shit sandwich– Diarrhea on rye, maybe Or mashed corn-studded turds on whole wheat Because getting roughage matters And fiber is important to a healthy diet– And fed it to him when His trembling outstretched hands pleaded for mercy?
It had to be something Right? Because he had to know what he was doing He had to know there was something done that deserved Punishment Without charge or trial
But it was just a joke Right? It was just A boy being a boy Or some such thing No harm done Not really It’s not like he did it to Anyone who matters
Clearly. Because he’s still wearing a badge Even if it has Something smeared on it Just a little, there
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Offer up praise to the llama! Punctuate holiday drama By hanging up wreaths And crawling beneath And playing the viol da gamba!
I should have used this as a writing prompt when I had students… Photo by Magnus Martinsen on Pexels.com
Strike up a llama-themed tune And dance in the light of the moon Hoping thereby To bid it pass by That beast that else besets us soon
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Year after year The call came Claiming with increasing dudgeon that Our way of life is under attack Although never saying whose it is Making sure we all already knew
This time Though The thunder of the guns is muted And the banners not unfurled so often Propagandists not hawking the tawdry wares They have been paid to sell
Is it that there are no buyers for them anymore Those who would purchase already owning “We’ve got it at home already; we don’t need another” Those who would not being unconvinced They will ever need to lift up arms in the war Some have claimed has been on since They got ideas about what they deserve?
Or is it the case Instead That the front has crossed me too far now And I am so far back that Struggle is but rumor?
As croaks the one who gave the bullfrog’s name,
I propose words that call for rightful blame,
Though I to righteousness can make no claim.
Yet never does the pot err in the hue
I calls out for the kettle, though it, too,
Is of the color that it names, and who
Is absent fault? Yet failure must be known
If it will be avoided by those prone,
As many are, to it. ‘Tis thus I hone
The edge of tongue and point of quill to chide
The Stupid God, whom all ought to deride,
Yet in whose spreading shadow many hide
And fall into the hole where that God treads,
Emptying their hearts to match their heads.
Looks about right. Photo by Alexey Demidov on Pexels.com
Throbbing inside my head, it
Presses against all my perception
I can even smell it
Taste it
Acrid to nose and tongue though
Neither have touched it, and
There is no relief to be found
Elliott RWI 