Black Friday, Black Friday


 Black Friday, Black Friday,
 A name that chimes doom,
 As the promise of sales
 Draws folks from the room.
 Saving a dollar
 Tears Thanksgiving apart,
 And the child by the fire
 Feels the loss in its heart.
 Are we so commercial
 As to look forward with glee
 To dates and reminders
 That split families?
 I think I’ll continue
 As though nothing’s occurred.
 The date in my diary’s
 Already gone blurred.
 
 
 
 
 

Beauty in Contrast

She sashayed through the meadow
 
 A carefree spirit happy beneath the sun.
 
 Auburn hair burned gold and eyes to melt men’s hearts,
 
 She danced and drew me in.
 
 She was everything in those moments:
 
 My past, future, and beyond.
 
 Unconcerned by who may see her, she laughed,
 
 Just through her head back and laughed at the world.
 
 Oh, to be so young and happy again.
 
 But as I sit and watch her sleep
 
 Resting in her favourite chair,
 
 I see that young girl flicker beneath a wrinkled exterior.
 
 She’s still as beautiful as ever to me.
 
 And we still love to laugh.
 
 But the meadow’s a bit beyond our reach.
 
 I’ll watch her hang the washing instead.
 
 
 
 
 

Poor, Poor Faerie Folk


When the light begins to dwindle and the little people come out don’t be scared. Don’t fear the faerie just lock your door, secure your windows and pray. It’s not that they want to hurt you whilst you sleep. They just wish to play. It’s not their fault that little hands can’t help poking and prodding, grabbing and scratching. They can’t be blamed if you fall out of bed, bang your head, bruise your shin, or worse. It’s not their fault that you won’t wake no matter WHAT they do! Poor, poor faerie folk. I feel sorry for them if truth be told. I’d never be so awful to them. Not again, anyway!

(Image courtesy amez on deviantart.com)

Storm Rising


 A storm is brewing.
 There is no wind, no rain, no lightning bright,
 But an undercurrent of rage and despair.
 I feel it in the floorboards,
 Sense it in the stale air.
 It is an oppressive force, self-perpetuating.
 Musing over my coffee mug has never felt so grim.
 Maybe it’s just me,
 Maybe the good is just hidden,
 But I wish to remain in my warm seat
 And never leave it’s comforting arms.
 Yes, I’m looking out on a storm.