She Hasn'T Killed Me Yet

She Hasn't Killed me yet 58. There are dangers all around us To affect our troubled soul. There are hazards such to make a Healthy person dig a hidey-hole. However... The thing that breeds destruction... The thing I thought I'd not survive... After thirty years of marriage... I'm still very much alive. The End The Snow-Drop 59. The multi flowered snow-drop has no equal With a courage making bold of winter's end. Where three white petals hang gloriously Like wondrous milk drops off her leafy stem. With other synoptic flowers lying dormant Beneath the frozen crust to which they cling. The snow-drop, alive with arrogance and hubris Blooms precipitously before the coming spring. But there is a cost to mocking spring's arrival Which she ably bears with no serious objection. As she eagerly perpetuates a minimal existence Before winter's corpse charts a new direction. The End I See You There 60. I see you high upon your perch Hurtling bitterness in all directions... Laughing and dancing a specious tune... Making bold of life's infections. I see you smoldering in the shadows Ready to pounce when some are weak. You'll extract your pound of rotted flesh And the wry carnage that you seek. I see you skulking like some phantom Twisting the very nature of your soul. But your rancor holds no treasure... Crawl back down your stygian hole. I see you lifeless in the grave... Pitying the choices you have made. Could I have been more empathetic? Could I have made you less afraid? I see you cowering before St. Peter With a dreaded sorrow there to be. Put aside your fear and trepidation... Grasp my hand and walk with me. The End February 61. Give no leniency to this tortured month And the extreme hepetude it profanes With an apathy that perpetuates each day Making them seem one and all the same. February begins and ends in a tomb of ice Forever standing lethargic to our plight Where blizzards blow a friendless snow paired With an unforgiving cold to mark each night. The shortest of the months... I know not why But I am thankful for this small consideration As there be only so much pain a vengeful deity Can heap to give voice to our privations. February is at best dilatory and circumspect Breeding a hopelessness and bizarre affliction With an ever downward spiral into darkness Striking at the very essence of our conviction. But temper your rancor and prostration for The melancholy February delivers in its wake... Knowing there's always the slimmest chance The weather may slightly moderate and break. As I look presumptuous towards that day And the blessed peace of mind it may provide When my children who I love more than life itself... By the Grace of God... finally go outside. The End We Can Change 62. I find courteous conversation a bit insipid As we explore life's current happenstance. We are afraid to stretch and take a chance In discussing themes we've willfully omitted. Is willfully too strong a word? I think not. It's certainly not reluctantly. We are contrite Creatures with a myriad of eclectic beliefs. But we obscure these sacred views like a thief Fearing certain ruin if outed by the light. But we can change... allow others to perceive But reject the drip of cloddished minions. Give voice to your most cherished opinions... Let a lens of freedom reflect all you believe. You'll become unfettered and find better days. But listen also... letting others have their say. The End