A Stationary Bicycle
26.
A stationary bicycle
Never travels very far.
Nor sniffs the meadow flowers
Or sets the evening star.
It is far from me to criticize
The direction that you ought...
But it seems a hellenic tragedy...
Being tied to just one spot.
The End
27.
March is hellish... a troubled soul
With a pensive melancholy unconcerned.
She grievously mocks the vernal equinox
That may yet herald spring's return.
She remains a riddled paradox
With moods as varied as the flowers
Lying trapped beneath her frozen crust
Unable to resist her shamanic powers.
The cruel winds of March yet linger
As the putrid corpse of winter strains
Setting a blizzard against the noonday sun
As a tormented populous writhes in pain.
But on the rarest of occasions
When March belays her wry suspicion...
Flowers bloom in propitious gratitude
To appreciate this peculiar disposition.
But March is fickle... like a lover's kiss
With her madness born a wormy moon...
Laughing at us through tempest eyes
And from our privation... stands immune.
The End
28.
I have a fondness for the honey bee
And the persniketiness it requires...
With no hint of languor or passivity
To reconfigure the bounty I desire.
I feel a sense of some indebtedness
Pondering the significance of the bee
Because no matter be I fair or foul...
It performs its dance for me.
The End
29.
A stygian specter upon my stoop...
Its heinous purpose not yet clear.
But it ripped me to my very core...
It tasked my soul with fear.
'Forgive this late intrusion,'
It offered in a throated baritone.
'I am due this night to reap a soul
But you neighbor's not at home.'
With a firm grip on my mortality...
I could think of nothing more.
So I called out towards my partner...
'Honey... you're wanted at the door.'
The End
30.
The prairie hides her treasures
Beneath the wheatgrass and the rye.
There is no mark... no point of sale
To explain why these children died.
It is left to us now living to somehow
Come to terms with what we see
But I'm at a loss to why this happened...
It makes no sense to me.
The End
*Thousands of Children's unmarked graves have been found at indigenous residential schools dating back 120 years.
*Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's Your Uncle.
Copyright © David Mchattie | Year Posted 2021
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