Just Words

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERASome say a picture is worth a thousand words. Others have very little to say. Still others have a vision that combines both words and pictures.

And so it goes…

 

 

 

 

—————————

An infusion of thought for my aunt Mary Lou

I made a call today,

Having had a dream,

Only to find that I’d had been received,

As something just to tolerate….it seems.

Each effort I make,

Returns to me with more and more disdain,

A shortness of tolerance,

Less and less room for me.

Easy conversation, quick and easy,

Removes the need of true conversation.

Just get through it. Seems to be the best way.

I’m now just something to tolerate,

It seems, despite my best effort

To prove them wrong,

Or my best work ever…

But not one could tell you what

I have done since I’ve

Been tolerated. Not one.

Years ago, in the dark,

I received a visit by my Mother,

Enraged that I would not sleep,

Or keep quiet.

But a switch and a quick lick,

And repeated strikes,

Made the dark quiet.

Long enough for her return,

To quiet my sobs and reassure me,

That she was wrong.

But I was just something to tolerate.

And so here I am today,

Having moved all that aside,

And having moved far away,

To again be just something to tolerate.

And still the short and senseless,

Meaningless conversations,

As though I were still…

Just something to tolerate.

I’m forgotten here, but still tolerated,

When the phone rings…briefly.

—————————-

Notes to a friend:

Flint and metal strike a pose,

And flames ignite my stare.

Plume and breath consume the draft,

And open windows flu the air.

 

Each stick I draw takes a day,

Each breath my time ’round here.

A match and light dig into me,

And whisper in my ear.

 

Full plume a loft in morning light,

Smoke and caffeine eat my time.

While hack and coughing greet the day,

As I draw my suit and tie in line

 

No more have I the luxury,

Of invincible youth and brazen.

For my teeth are gone,

And my smile depicts,

the appearance of a raisin.

 

Who are the men who picked the weed,

And then fed it to the crowd?

For them I now leave this world,

In a wheeze,        a cough,         and a shroud.


 


 

 

 

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