The gigantic acacia tree would testify
Were it not for savage ravages of rot
That erase feeble living things that die
After decades under sun’s missiles hot.
And the birds that chirruped and flew
About as he trudged over hill and bend
Long went like all weak beings of flight,
And no more can lasting credence lend.
If old baobab trunks had tongues that turn
Methinks they would solid testimony avail,
Of how devoutly he toiled in dews and sun
And never refrained from heaven-sent toils.
But since baobab trunks unspeaking are
And birds such fleeting breaths have they,
Can cold unfeeling stones their version say:
Tell how over them hopped he on his way?
Though villainous eyes those labors saw,
Witnessing their tireless winds and turns;
None would ranks of vile ignominy break
And end this betrayal that achingly burns.
And for want of witness this sobbing soul
Perishes and dissolves like a soaking loaf
Amid bootless heavens’ amnesic lethargy,
As cruel decades to a rude century morph.
My heart and mind don't align
I yearn for dreams to yield but vegetate
Putting off things for the very next day
My willpower is always at its lowest
Laziness floods my habits and goals
Until I drown in unsuccess.
The bed, so invitingly soft
It tempts me into a languid slumber
While a half-finished coffee mug
Sits cold on my window sill
My mobile phone, a dangerous distraction
As I scroll hours through social media when awake
Squandering my precious time away
My mind keeps dwelling on the past
Inundating memories of joy, sorrow and regrets
Serving no purpose
Then I slid into an eternity of pleasant thoughts
Of how to spend the next day of my life.
I fell asleep outside,
on Lisa’s windy, 50th floor terrace.
It was indulgent, sensual
and lethargic - it crushed.
I forgot the time.
The sunset was intense,
a violent shock of color,
like an existential smack in the face.
I felt a lot of joy.
I’m feeling optimistic.
We leave for New Haven tomorrow.
I believe in the future.
Leeza popped her head out of the glass doors,
she was wearing a small, pale, skin bikini,
“Wanna go to the (indoor basement) pool?”
I stretched like a cat, “Sure,” I purred.
.
.
a song for this:
Hit My Heart by BOY
Relax by Vacations
.
.
Our cast:
Leeza, my roommate Lisa’s 14-year-old skinny, redheaded beauty of a little sister.
Lisa, one of my Yale roommates whose parents live in a Central Park South, Manhattan Highrise
Gotta get out and about
I’m gonna lick this lethargy
What’s holding me back
is an utter lack of energy
No pep talks, coffee, drugs
or food on a platter for me
Frankly, it all comes down to
mind over matter, you see
Like steam I float and drift, aimlessly
dripping like warm bottled water
spilt onto a floor, leaving the lazy
footprints of a dawdling daughter.
R is for the repeated distortions of facts,
A for press articles written with hacks,
M for the emphasis placed on survival,
P for the piss taken out of your rival.
A for analogies that never convince,
N for false narratives making us wince,
T for traditional values cast-off
That cause umpteen scholars and clergy to scoff.
L is for lovers whom I dream of all night,
E for electric bills high as a kite,
T for temptations I can’t keep at bay,
H for Matt Hancock - please God stay away!
A is for the **** he fondled intensely,
R for resigning - we respect that immensely,
G is for the government of which he was part, and
Y for the yes-men aboard that rotting cart.
you arrive in pieces...
the horrible details I almost forgot
I always asked you to look north
and other things I regret
I used my sharp words
I built you
I didn't even get tired
of your sick steps around the house
or your corny shirt written 'do you love me?'
now the sun is setting fast
leaves an indecent streak of light in the sky
the silhouette of an airplane passes through there
in the window at the top of this building I'm harmless
I can barely hate being here
ALLOPATHY IS SAFETY, BUT MAKES US LETHARGY,
DROWSY,. ALSO CAUSES HUNGRY., DON'T YOU KNOW BLOODY?,.byg.anuthangavel
God shifts his weight and half an oak remains.
One soul must die; another life retains.
I stand a little shaky now.
raise my hand, put drops in my eye,
A sort of palsy visits me
I let the blood sport play, yet wonder why
pause until I am no longer faint.
At times my body fools me, like wet paint.
I accept it as a debt I must repay,
for all the times I treated it that way.
cruel in action, abusive with indulgence,
careless or discourteous, ignoring common sense.
nonchalant, often asleep behind the wheel
Now time for me to touch my age with far less zeal.
P eople
E ncourage
O ther
P eople's
L ethargy
E verywhere
You are just not, concerned about growth
You do what you want, but don't push envelopes
Won't go beyond, or outside comfort zones
You are a man that's stagnant
You stick to routines, and do the same things
Refuse to do anything new, yeah that's weak
Can not push boundaries, as a creature of habit
You are a man that's stagnant
I went to my art studio to view my latest paintings,
because frankly, I had completely forgotten what I was
working on, or whether I was working on anything.
I recognized none of the paintings on first glance,
then one of the skies rang a bell. I remember adding too
much glitter and being annoyed with myself. They are all
my style, and I have used my favorite colors, so I guess they
are my paintings.
My signature neons grin at me from three or four unfinished
canvases. Pinks, blues, yellows, greens, reds, and lots of oranges.
I love orange! It is maybe my favorite color this year. My enthusiasm
for these canvases has waned, maybe totally died even. She expired
so quickly, I do not care about finishing them.
Like my poetry, I often do not recognize facets of my personality
as she flings herself onto a page, into a word processor, or against
a rough linen canvas. These ideas clearly live within, but so deep,
I do not bother to keep them in my conscious mind or cherish
them after I am finished with them.
I am so irreverent to my stuff, it should be embarrassing.
But it is not.
I am deprived of my old sweet relief,
Turning the page but turn to the leaf.
I spill out myself to sanction some space
To which I can return, try to compensate.
Contemplate and complicate my own design
I find this a fate to which I cannot resign.
Soaking in the petrichor of each night,
Of every solemnly forsaken fight.
Each decision and each disappointment
So boldly displayed in my temperament.
I need this safety net below me always to move
Even one step forward toward what I pursue,
Simple answers and the life good enough
Hoping life itself does not call my bluff.
Folks in rural Pennsylvania think that Punxsutawney Phil
is, by all means, that happy and friendly groundhog
that predicts the beginning of spring on a forest log;
he's very smart and looks friendly when he wags his tail.
If his prognistication is right everybody applauds,
and awaits the arrival of the harmonious season;
what if he refuses to comply...will there be lauds,
or at least, plenty of food on his plate not too lean?
It's the annual rite of wishful anticipation, almost an augural
pretense that the happy season will be at their doors to spread harmony,
but if Punxsutaweny Phil won't predict anything and wants to crawl
back into his warm den, there'll be a longer wait 'till he breaks his lethargy.
Copyright ( c ) 20015 by Andrew Crisci
Put in lethargy
Weakness stupor sleepiness
No energy left
Russell Sivey
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