An Ode To Country Living

The buzzards in the trees and the inter-net fees
make country life a hassle
and its hard to sing when you're just a king
with a mortgage on your castle

it gets hot inside the old double-wide
when the summer sun is baking
but with winter’s chill comes a heating bill
that’ll make your soul start aching

A rummage of grey clouds smother on high,
threatening dark and dreary.
Boredom fidgets indoors.
pacing carpets weary.

A mottle of melancholy dawdles,
while amble billows shift.
Tedium turns over,
waking the sleeping drift.

Google eyes yawn, retired in fatigue,
weighed by the moribund void.
The dull of stimuli
arrests the cushions toyed.

The clock thumps away the daylight hours,
with the seconds heavy tick.
Striking every hour
to jerk the mosey quick.

Caught within the crushing grip of grieving,
the preacher told me
“God takes and gives;
it isn’t ours to judge or question.”
Yet when I turned away,
accepting of his creed,
Cernunos took my hand
and tugged me back around
to warming sunrise,
his tails wrapped around my grief,
to whisper echoing,
“Do you wish eternal sadness,
or the spending
of your lifetime
celebrating hers?”

I balance on the edge of that they call my lyric mind
and leave the bloody, cloven steps of razor’s walk behind.
Depression squeals, the choked muse reels and all I’ve wrought is thought.

We watch the flame the candle makes, but no one sees the wick.
The poet hides the closest parts because those parts are sick.
Nous runs amain, it flees the pain and all I write is naught.

What is this fear of showing self, of giving self away?
Mechanical I demonstrate and all I have to say.
I tell a tale and all bewail, but naught of poignant phrase.

There once was a girl from Gorslas,
whose brain cells where shrivelled and sparse.
She was a bit crabby
and her buttocks were flabby
cos she constantly sat on her … Bottom.

Her job was to solder, they said,
which made her feel rancid and dead.
Her chin had grown stubble
and her back was bent double,
which made her near go off her head.

She worked with her hubby; so say,
breathing in fumes every day.
their bones anatomic
looked swollen bubonic
and their youth was soon whittled away.

We thought that moving to a place

with springs, grass-field and butterflies

would make it better for us, but it was all vanity;

like in the city when we were complaining about overdue bills,

traffic, noise and lack of privacy,

we are now polluting this serene place

with our petty fights.

If it is possible to move to heaven right now,

I think God would kick us back to this blue ball……..

Honey, I think it’s time that we change our attitude

towards each other, and rekindle our passionate love,

One must be in the moment to enjoy the tea,
a time of contemplation; nowhere else to be.
Aroma, taste and warmth alone to hold one’s thought.
A sentimental cup and may perhaps a pot.

Arrange a lovely view to set the mind at ease
and should it be outside allow naught but a breeze.
Then choose the tea with care- it must be brewed to soothe,
a bitter taste or something cultivated smooth.

I stopped by Frost's stone house today
To see what that old house would say
About a poet long revered
Who owned this lovely bit of clay

Trimmed and cut the yard stood bare
Of old and rusted farming gear
No hoe or rake or plow was seen
Sharon France not a Rockwell scene

Old Frost must  feel quite annoyed
To see his life work so employed
His home was a working farm
His family and his friends enjoyed

Late at Night in the sky there are stars to be seen.
Constellations abound with a brilliance that’s keen.
But when gazing above bright suburbian glare
all I note is the darkness and stars that ain’t there.

About four in the morning bright Pollox is viewed.
Maybe Sirius, brightest of stars, white, blue hued
and Orion’s wide belt arcs from west to the east,
but there’s no Milky way. Where the Hell is my feast?

My professor told me that we’re a dangerous breed
Fooling people into the state of mind that we live and breathe
Throwing words around like some crazy son of a gun
Say what you want that man knows his logic and then some,

So have I been a criminal all along
A crook
A thinker
Some crazy man with ideas and on the run,

I've committed the crime of changing your mind
And above all I think I just wasted your time,
Telling you my sob stories and sharing some pathetic rhymes,