eThoughts: November 1, 2009: Songs, Part I ©2009. All rights reserved.

Brought to you by, Really Bad Poetry,™ a division of Book-In-A-Drawer Publications.™

Cooperation

In the late afternoon I walked,
Though one of my legs was not cooperating.
Or maybe it was I that was not cooperating
With my leg.

Still we went along,
As we all seem to do.

Lament

There was a song that moved me
To dance and rejoice,
Though the lyrics, and good they were,
Rhymed pain and loss and lament.

Turn my attention to the music,
My body and I were positively moved.
Turn my attention to the lament,
My body and I were sunk with weight.

And we wonder where pain and happiness lie.

Happiness

Just who said we had to have it,
As we wish to define it?

Happiness is a detail,
Organized in the left side of the brain,
Where language mostly is.

There is a Cheshire smile about this,
Everywhere,
Though it is often difficult to discern
In the midst of so much confusion and surety.

She

She brought her baby by,
Born on the same month and day as I,
Though years apart.

She is a watchful and careful mother,
Monitoring my every move
As I held her child for hours.

As a new mother,
She gets a replacement child,
To be held and adored by all,
Even if she thought her first child
Was abandoned
By those very same people,
Including her.

Another She

She said she wished we could go back.
I wondered why we could not go forward.

We both laughed.

It would not be either.
It never could be.

Love is sometimes
Much sweeter lost, then lived.

Her

She is around, as she often is.
She is close, but very far.
There is deep connection,
On some levels,
But I am no match for God.

I guess she thinks
God is safer that way,
And so is she.
After all,
What if God got Angry?

Another Her

I thought of her today.

She is likely out there somewhere.

I was like the shell,
That had to be broken through.

There was chaos in the cracking,
But I suspect little freeing.

But I don’t know, except
She is likely out there somewhere
And I thought of her today.

End of Day

It is evening tide
And the light plays
Different with form
And form with light.

Perhaps we will notice
Each other
In a passing
That really isn’t.

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