"Eat your veggies," as a nipper I was told
but I'd hide 'em on me lap so Mum wouldn't scold
then all the quicker feed 'em to the dish-licker
before they were even cold
now I'm older not sadder but wiser
and do enjoy a tasty appetiser
they may appear to look like a pear
here's a myth I wish to quash
tho' they're fruit chayotes taste like
zucchini cucumber or squash
against the fence homegrown I grow me own
and me garden's full of chokos
"Choko-bloc," one might even say
I'll do a prickly pear or two
but still don't eat veggies to this day
morning was sadder than april
he looked at his clock and calendar at the same time
then glanced back at april before it ended
and ahead to may before it had begun.
there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance…
no breeze to push the clouds along
and no promise of hope beyond the horizon.
it was morning and morning was sadder than all of april
—nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide—
just time—minutes really—before he had to go.
there were no birds in the sky on a day such as this…
third monday—april now too far gone—
yet may too far away.
morning was sadder than all of april
and he had chosen to watch as april surrendered it’s place
to the delegation of memories.
morning pushed hard on the clouds,
moving quieter than the silence of daybreak,
waiting like a vagrant at a bus depot and with less hope for kindness.
there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance across the countryside…
and no promise of hope beyond the horizon.
morning was sadder than all of april
and only fragments of memories remained
tolbert
I remember those sadder days
That will remain forever and always
Within my soul so clean
Without kindness it’s presence so mean
Each time that something is taken
In the gloom of sadness makin’
The bad chips away at your soul
And in the end survival is your only goal.
© Paul Warren Poetry
An umbrella moves
through the rain
and in between each drop
emptiness
Morning’s injured light
far from the sun
trips over rooftops
into the wind’s mouth
passing over my eyes
I hear footsteps
alone on the sidewalk
alone in the rain
only to stop and wait
for a dream or a green light
From the sidelines
a burly boom
of far-off thunder
Time passes even darker
Raindrops tangle in my hair
raindrops sadder than anything
Neruda has written
-------------------------------------------
©dah / dahlusion 2016 a.r.r.
"Sadder Than Anything" was first published
in The Recusant, UK
Seldom now do honeybees take wing
to visit the flowery bower-
or do I hear a meadowlark sing
nor a whippoorwill call in the evening hour.
Butterflies once like rainbow arrays-
cloaking the flowery bower-
now seem mostly gone on summer days
and nightingales rarely sing in the evening hour.
To hear a bobwhite whistle for its mate-
or see a red tail hawk in gliding flight
has become a rarity of late-
and the raucous jay is now a rare sight.
Even mischievous crows that used to mock
the red tail hawk in flight-
no longer in twilight’s glower flock-
it seems only starlings share not this plight.
For these and others we all must long-
and ask the reasons for this disgrace,
for when these creatures are truly gone-
this world will be a sadder place.
Caught up in your words of sincerity
Closest of friends, we shared from our hearts
Twisting the truth was your reality.
A wounded soul, you craved security
I wanted to help you, to do my part
Caught up in your words of sincerity.
You shared past hurts, had a sad history
It was important to make a fresh start
Twisting the truth was your reality.
Naive, I bared my soul too easily
But you had a manipulative heart
Caught up in your words of sincerity.
In time, I found out you had lied to me
You took what you needed, as I fell apart
Twisting the truth was your reality.
The sorrow remains, as I take my leave
A life lesson learned, at least on my part
Caught up in your words of sincerity
Twisting the truth was your reality.
Written on 3/20/2015
if anyone were to ask
was there a time
when the black umbrellas
folded
and the reign ended;
the crows again flew, stark
against the Summer sun;
the scent of roses threw
their stain along the tendrils
of the wind;
and the quiet of a day
no longer stretched itself,
yawning like a wound -
if anyone were to ask
when was the moment
that gave beat to the measure;
what drove
the cloud from the lining;
which dog ate the marrow,
warm and quivering, from
the heart of the bone;
how gracefully the slumbering giant
rolled away from the dew
of morning -
if anyone were to ask
what changed it all
my response would be
it happened as he
listened to the unspoken;
honored an unshed tear;
gave loft to the gauze
of an airless dream;
held an empty hand until
it grasped everything -
if anyone were to ask
I’d have to say
these things became
fluid
as effortlessly
and unremarked
as the wink of an eye
that is
the color of the Aegean Sea
On a Friday when the world was sad
We had, all of us, knelt down to pray
That nothing further would come out
We’d wish then for no sadder day
The next day that would come to us
Would be one that's two days away
A day filled with, faith and prayer
As we would skip that Saturday