Snooze
I am struggling to lift my head, get outta bed, to get the day started, before the sun, finish, over and done. I choose to hit the snooze alarm a dozen times. The things I am willing to sacrifice just to sleep in. Food, do I really need it? I imagine the bargaining it will take to make me want to move among the “living”. I try to coax myself with a nice spin, two more weeks till the end, then you can sleep in. My snooze alarm is my best friend, but, I won’t need him then.
Written by Gina Adams
Monday, May 7, 2024
Hopeless (or less hope)
There are nights that don't end with a dawn
It's the night I'm now trying to pass.
The heavy slab of sorrow, plunges my heart to drown
Into the depths of the ocean; a deep crevasse.
Tell me, the eternal stars who look down on me:
What's my fate? Where's my destiny?
My constant burning did not illuminate
A pathway for anyone or help ignite
Passion that would invigorate.
I lost the battle without a fight.
I chase the dreams and the demons
But end up running from them
With not enough excuses or reasons
And the feeling that I'm not at helm.
So tell me, the eternal stars with all you can see:
What's my fate? Where's my destiny?
Ominous presentiments quaked rationalist scribe... triggering ultimate vanquishment - wrecking youth
One scared little boy
socially and emotionally withdrawn
desperately clutched
his mother's apron strings
in an effort for safety
and security to deploy
bowl haircut (courtesy mother)
created striking resemblance
with Little Lord Fauntleroy,
he prayed getting adopted
courtesy MainLine hoi polloi
housing twenty first century
version Helen of Troy.
When nothing but a pipsqueak
the world wide web
seemingly crashed around the Dumbo ears
of me one run(t) of the mill(ion) logophile,
who warranted professional
parents sought psychologist Ted Goldberg,
who prescribed Mellaril and Elavil
(put that in your Funk and Wagnalls).
Hence panglossian appellation
incongruous with well read kook,
he who embraces atheistic, holistic, individualistic,
pessimistic, poetic, realistic, terrific... outlook,
whose pastime reading books yum zook.
More so yours truly
considers himself an existential nihilist,
whereby birth offers no significant purpose,
and only death released one
into the portal of sublime nirvana.
I adopted (rather inherited) said credo
courtesy (predicated upon)
long line of renowned fatalists
plagued with suicidal ideation
(read anorexic predilections)
when a mere
transparent microscopic zygote.
Now grown old and weary
(actually aged poet here
three decades plus five years
shy of becoming centenarian)
chronic dysthymia doth
(cry Uncle) fester
within me noggin.
While in utero
after due time
(obstetrician witnessing
full term scrawny newborn)
subsequently exiting birth canal
January thirteenth mcmlix
inhaling initial breath of fresh air
mine residence upon oblate spheroid
nothing but endless
mental health crisis fraught existence.
No obvious physical aberration evident,
when cervix of
xxxxxxx xxxxxx maximally dilated,
whereby a buck naked
scraggly bag of bones issued forth,
mere minutes elapsed after head did crown
until skinny collection
of arms and legs did flail about
the baby boy wailed himself blue in the face
bellowing at ear splitting decibels
indicative something askew
impossible mission
to decipher infantile yowling.
Upon cusp of becoming old and senile
formidable impediments kickstarted
incalculable, indelible, and ineradicable
torturously writhing mailer daemons
asphyxiating life sustaining essence
at tender age kickstarting self destruction
jackknifing healthy metamorphosis
from young lad into emerging adult
a history replete with psychological landscape
severely sundered into wasteland
forever extirpating potential joie de vivre.
Waiting room
A room, a place, a space
where there’s no clock
only the time of life
It tells you the seasons
The seasons of a human life
The summer of jubilation
The fall of letting go
The winter of grieving
The spring of a new beginning
It takes a lot of patience
to get the next season of life
During that waiting
You can discover yourself
of who you actually are
Where’s patience nowadays?
Everything needs to be fast
Hurry, busy, carelessly
But the seasons are coming
and going on their own pace
Patience is the key of life
It is taking its own time
Slowly, properly, calmly
The seasons are thriving on it
and they move with you
Acknowledge the seasons
in your own busy life
Stand still for a moment
and wait for its change
Give yourself a pause
Live in the here and now
Where there’s no past
Where there’s no future
Where there’s no clock
Only the time of life
Wait for a moment…
Awaiting a growth spurt that never happened
When a boy,
I wanted to be as tall as my father
(he passed away October seventh
two thousand and twenty
linkedin to congestive heart failure),
who stood at his prime
about six feet and two inches
and tipped the scales
close to two hundred pounds.
Teachers and other familiar adults
chimed in that though diminutive
(yours truly, he unwittingly offered himself
as the ideal scapegoat
courtesy being longitudinally challenged,
weighing no more than an ostrich feather,
and hashtagged as "the quietest student,"
a flower child of the ninety sixties
always kept mum every single day of school),
would unexpectedly experience
peak height velocity.
Neither at ages eighteen, nineteen, twenty...
sixty three, sixty four and sixty five
bore witness to any added inches,
which topped out
around my sixteenth birthday
approximately seventy inches tall
and attendant weight a scrawny
one hundred and
twenty five pounds or thereabouts.
Actually since graduating
from Methacton High School
two score and seven years ago,
my weight ballooned
an avoirdupois unit of weight
divided into 16 ounces,
and equal to 0.453 592 kilograms
approximately forty plus times
such said constituent parts
first thing in the morning
after eliminating evacuating
re:excreting bodily waste.
A preponderance of adipose tissue
long since upended my once upon a time
twenty nine inch waist.
Slab of flab protrudes from ab - feel free to grab!
What follows initially written
quite some years ago
when being skinny as a rail meant
no meat on these lovely bones,
thus hired myself out as scared crow,
now excess adipose tissue thy foe
losing battle partially explaining
why knight spends inordinate
amount of time in his grotto.
Twas an incremental
subtle expansion of waist
plus olympic challenge to tie shoes
most likely side effects of one
or all nine prescription medications
to stave off severe melancholy,
social anxiety, panic attack, et cetera
when yours truly merely
prepubescent self starvation courtesy
emaciated Anorexic skeletal ribcage
traced (about two score
and a baker's dozen years ago),
now whereby most everything
thy tongue doth taste
immediately delivered
a randy (new man) paunch
to former washboard six pack
smooth as a fresh application
of gesso like paste
readying fleshy canvass
for partially nude
self-portrait masterpiece
(adjacent to barenaked lady)
lived three doors down
depicting mine once perfectly,
(albeit one scrawny lad)
proportioned body electric laced
with flat as a washboard physique
unlike present disk graced
whereat when sending a photograph
of shirtless self-try with futility
utilizing photoshop to get erased
displeasing equatorial zone of anatomy
saddled with unwanted
fatty tissue that defaced
proportionate rock hard stomach
one generic measly slender adult man
about five foot and ten-inch build
evincing an aura of being chaste
gone forever analogous to temptation
gobbling house constructed
of cake and confectionery,
that nearly did likewise
to Hansel and Gretel
readying their not quite
plump enough bodies
tubby slathered with baste,
yet just in the nick of time
the two abandoned minors
actually removed courtesy
children, youth and
family services (CYS)
under care of adoption in sync
with spade work
aced the sinister plot outwitting
cannibalistic cackling
croaking old woman
inducing all to break out into song -
singing the following tune
I learned in grade school.
Loose air into pipes and croon
solo loud enough audible to man in the moon.
Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat
Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat
A doray-oh, A doray-boomday-oh
A doray-boomday ret set set
Ah say pah say oh.
Dawn of Dusk
Horizon churns a cool, blue-white
The scene of daytime falls
And the mountains turn to shadow
Slowly sinking into the night
Warm, rose hued tones climb high
As Selene begins to waken
Heaven strains to hold the light
Fire races across a molten sky
Cold, black gold twilight at the fore
The sun’s nightly eulogy spoken
Starshine glimmers in a dreamy trance
Evening’s spell is cast once more