medication makes me sleepy
I have been congested for three weeks
Mucinex, Vicks and Benadryl have put me down for many naps.
Some days I have taken up to three of them.
This morning, I agreed to go to the bank at ten.
I woke up at 7:13 and decided to nap at 8:08.
At 9:47 my husband yelled “I AM GOING TO THE BANK!’
in one of those anger-aggressive ways.
He woke the dog and me both up.
I got dressed in three minutes.
I do not have to look prissy or even good to go to a bank.
At the bank the lady asked if I had my cell phone.
I told her there was not time.
My husband hustled me out of the house so fast.
Weird that she asked me about a phone anyway.
No one at the bank has ever asked me if I had my cell phone.
They were lucky I grabbed my identification at the last second.
My husband will probably tell me why when he gets to the car.
I am sitting here, writing up my tale of woe.
Echoes of the holy grace, for this place,
Endless woe of devolution,
Forever entice, your grace,
The moon is your solution.
Confined in this space, of endless grace,
Under the moonlight, it is illusion,
Illusion of woe, forever retrace,
It is all persuasion, or is it union?
Shadows creep, where darkness breeds,
A symphony of sorrows, never-ending,
Lost souls wander, planting crushed seeds,
A tale, forever transcending.
Each day is priceless;
We can treasure memories
Of both weal and woe.
The eating of pie before dinner,
It isn’t on point to get thinner.
It’s best to let go
That tin pan of woe,
And be a calorical winner.
A marionette of the void
Aware of the needle like strings,
Stranding on the edge of light
Yet covered by the veil of hollowness
A woeful homunculus, gazing at the abyss
Wishing
Overwhelm be
Eradicated
I am a loquacious, a storyteller of whimsy and woe
this poem is a jargogle of jumbling words
as I enter the forest to a cacophony of harsh sounds
oh, I often tend to be a gloomy crapehanger
and sometimes a fantasizer unable to distinguish
between fantasy and reality
escaping into the intricate world of poetry
it is a metamorphosis of a logophile word lover
oh, I am distracted by the wind in trees
and the rustling of leaves petrichor
and fall into an elysian state
it is an ephoria so intense with mellifluous feelings
sometimes I find myself in an assemblage of headstones
as I meander to the symphony of bird songs
as the darkness of death wraps around me
and the withered flowers are beautiful to behold
lost, lost in a reverie rhapsodic, unraveling words
and living in the moment, detached
They taught about the almighty. Did they love him ever?
Did they enter heaven, or allow others to enter?
Like surfaces of silent lakes, they looked calm and serene.
Underneath flew currents of whirlpools, tearing the marine
The poor were deserted like twigs of trees, they deserted.
Their hard earned wealth, into their own interests, they diverted
The oaths on the gifts of the altar of God was precious.
Should the mercy of God on the altar be infectious?
Millions of laws they made. Did they practice the law of love?
Did they think that they had fallen, like stars, straight from above?
Cleaning their vessels from outside was their eternal task.
Like white-washed catacombs, their reality was mere masks.
Woe to you, you told them. You teach laws, yet, lawless yourselves.
Each skeleton of those you had killed, remove from your shelves.
I can do my rune rede uncorrupted.
The Ward nurses word can not be trusted.,
Nurse allows me to eat at the cafe,
I will be pissed off ,trusting them, led astray .
Will go outside on the stoep ;be alone.
Go on a strike, license lost, not in the zone,
I write some poetry, I feel genuine ,
Refuse my requests I take no medicine..
I feel relieved my mood is feels so high.
Reduce my food intake; you ready to die ?
I am covid free as far as I see ,
Send out the death note on the Net , I decree.
See my cousin tomorrow if things go well.
Send my death note out to my kin -a hard sell,
Write poems about nature in near future,
I might. be paranoid have a sense of humour..
Do my exercises brings no sorrow.
Sad if I am not seeing blood tomorrow,
Trying to keep a rigid upper lip ,
My ward is a locked door ;a hellish trip.. guy
In the lowest of your moments,
When bitter trials are fought,
Platitudes blare like loud trumpets,
Most are sincere but ill-taught
It’s not folks pity that you plead,
Empathy they may not sense,
It’s presence that you truly need,
In your time of deepest grievance.
In the lowest of your moments,
Cliches can blare like brass,
And cause angst and discomfort,
Pious words of hope don’t last.
There are some trials so profound,
They must be faced at all costs,
Though sadness and woe abound,
Not doing so deepens the loss.
You’re not the only one to cry,
In this pit of suffering,
It will take time for it to by,
For your soul to find true healing.
By God’s grace and abiding love,
With family and friends near,
Between life here and that above,
You couldn’t be in better care.
In days bygone, a widow was looked at as a tried leaf.
There was no aid, even from a twig. She just fell and fled.
As a branch that's cut off and ostracized, she's full of grief.
Jesus knew this. It's hence that, in him, concern for her grew.
It's not water. It's her inner ache that thawed into tears.
Her only son was gone, like a wing-clipped bird. She's grief-struck.
Thoughts of a future with nightmares brought her numerous fears.
Psyche was dead. Physique walked as though seeking some luck.
It's not mere bier, Jesus touched her fading heart's pitch-dark cores.
With her son, her joy, hope, and optimism were resurrected.
Her smile, like spring, replaced her winter woes. No summer sores.
Celestial scenes, in her mind, as on a mirror, reflected
He's a prophet, they said. Wasn't he the word made flesh, yet?
Wasn't his power, like the fragrance in blossoms, innate?
You live in sapphire-decked castles. You wear soft muslin clothes.
The snugness of mundane wealth, like the termite, eats you up.
Though you care less for God, in his name, you dare to take oaths.
With your vanilla wines, the pains of the poor fill your cup.
You're already comforted, Jesus said; what more do you need?
Why do you need a heaven above when you have it here?
Woe to you because you've killed your soul due to your greed.
The unending furnace of the afterlife, don't you fear?
The tears of the poor you mock at utter: you'll mourn as well.
Do you, at your conceit, shout and jump as though on cloud nine?
You're galloping like a drunken horse, unaware of hell.
Cobwebs of lust, spite, wrath, and sloth have filled your inner shrine.
Could any bird, with a snake that eats its eggs, feel at ease?
On you, the wrath of the one who loves them will never cease.
To a new job, 5 days a week I go
Sigh. I wish my memory was not so slow
I get through most of the directions-- then...
I gotta ask-- what's the last thing (again) :O
Thoughts of you always
permeate my mind's garden
with the seed of hope
my garden, although full of woe,
still grows with tears
and fleeting rays of hope.
©SamHarty
*On The Run*
Hunted by my past, trailed by my shadow,
Intoxicated by elixir of youth,
I climb the ìrókò beyond the leaves.
Wail of woes, dehydrated dreams
Crushed in the battlefield of the deep;
Love lost, hoarse voice, greying hairs.
The wind slaps me cold,
Drunk with evil pleasure,
Sweet sorrow envelopes me;
Then it dawns on me,
I’d frittered the forest and harried the sea
With eyes larger than my stomach
While lost in the jungle of ambition.
I have impregnated the sand
and birthed blood;
Now,
Buried in the remnant of the night,
Fame
Is a remote treacherous valley
of thorny roses.
Wandering in the wilderness of civilization,
The stench of my decomposing sins has found me out.
A prisoner in my own skin,
I must hide and run,
And run and hide.
Solace in firewater and ghettos,
Like the hourglass,
I must hit the highway
And journey to nowhere.
In the end,
I can't outrun my shadow.
Related Poems