Changes

I used to be concerned with

How much I did,

Or how much I didn’t do,

 

Evaluating whether or not

I was up to snuff

With my own priorities,

 

And of course,

Whether or not

I kept my wife happy.

 

Lately, things have

Taken a different turn.

Since my body

 

Has seen fit

To rebel against me,

And my doctor

 

Doesn’t seem able

To reign things in,

My priorities have

 

Changed quite a bit.

In fact, the term

“priorities” doesn’t

 

Seem to fit anymore,

Not for how most

People think about it.

 

My biggest priority

Is my medicine.

That’s not a new one,

 

At least on the surface,

Since I’ve had bipolar

For over 15 years,

 

And been taking meds

For just as long.

But now it makes

 

An immediate,

Drastic difference.

And the long-term risk

 

Without it,

Is terrifying.

It’s like food

 

And water.

And the third need,

Common to all of us,

 

But more drastic for me,

Is sleep.  More specifically,

I have to keep my sleep

 

In order.  I have to take

A strong round of meds

Throughout the day,

 

And then really

Pulverize my mind

With meds

 

At the end of the day,

Just so I can sleep.

And I have to start

 

A methodic relaxation,

Early, despite being

A night person.

 

Otherwise,

I will not be getting up

For work in the a.m.

 

Obviously,

Things have changed

A little bit.

 

(Poetic Asides

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 133

“Priorities”)

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Awaiting the Night

I wonder, as I sit here,
Humoring this fool,
Who keeps himself entertained,
With his scientific pursuits,

Should I be participating?
That musician is just as
Guilty as I am,
Strumming away as if

Nothing wrong is happening.
It’s obvious!
This fair maid is being kept
Hostage for his amusement!

We are being paid,
But she has no choice
In the matter.
And look at her!

She’s terrified!
He serves her with meat
As if a guest,
While she counts the

Seconds until he gets
Tired of his stupidity,
Sends us home,
And escorts her to

His chambers,
Where, just as she fears,
He will ravish her
With all his brutish strength.

We should stop it!
We should call the
City guards to lock him up,
And keep this sweet,

Innocent virgin
From such a sinister,
Grisly attack.
There are some things

That just should not
Be done in this world,
And having money,
Should not make it right!

 

(Magpie Tales: Mag 67 (visual)

Nicolas-Tournier—Banquet-Scene-with-a-Lute-Player)

Nobody Wants to Be an Angel

Dungeons keep
The unwanted.
Towers keep
The necessary
But still unwanted.

In the village
Lives the free man,
Who pays taxes
To the king,

So the villager
Is wanted
For his work,
And for his money.

But what of the great
Flock of angels
Waiting in the heavens?
Busy as ever,

But unknown,
Unappreciated,
Unwanted.

Being an angel
Is a thankless job.
Everyone pays homage
But nobody bears duty.

Being an angel
Is hard work.
You have to save
Stupid people.

You have to keep
Watch over evil men
Who plague the innocent
With their corruption.

And all kinds of things.
But what reward do
Angels get?
They get to be in

God’s presence.
Given, it is a privilege.
But how far does it go?
Eventually,

Even that gets old.
In the end,
Nobody wants to be
An angel.

(Sunday Scribblings
#269 – flock)

Straight Out of the Sea

Straight Out of the Sea

(Straight out of the sea,
Surfing on fresh, white foam,
An impossible cello,
Glowing reddish brown, with
A butterfly-shaped bow,
Begins to play a concerto
In the presence of a female
Who has sprouted butterfly
Wings from her back,
And antennae from her head.)

As the cello begins his song,
The young woman yearns
For a faraway land,
A land where cellos playing
By themselves,
And young women with wings
And antennae are simplicity.

In this lost land,
She was once a princess,
And held before her
A king’s palace and a
Father’s love.

But this princess gave up
All that she held dear,
For the love of one man,
A hard, ambitious sailor,
Who dreamed that one day,
He would be captain
Of the royal fleet!

So she boarded his ship
One night, under cover
Of darkness and stealth,
Outwitting her father’s guards,
And the security around
Her lover’s craft.

The journey was difficult,
Especially for a princess.
She held tight, though.
She hid among the cargo,

Hoping that upon reaching
The final destination,
They would be free
For just a while,
Out of the sight
Of her father’s eyes.

But there was an
Accident before they
Reached their destination.
One of the crew
Was searching for something,
Who knows what,
And found her crouching,
Deep between the boxes.
Immediately fear erupted
In that man’s heart,

Even though he was innocent.
Soon the crew knew of her,
And the game was up.
Rather than risk the death

Of her lover, she swiftly
Allowed the crew to lead
Her to the nearest island
Where they could dump

Her with her reddish brown cello
That played itself with a butterfly
Topped bow. She was never
Recognized or even questioned.

Most ordinary men and women
Of the kingdom had no knowledge
Of the royal family, so there was
No way sailors would know her.

So she stood on the shore
And listened to her cello play,
As the fresh sea foam drifted
In and out on the beach.

(Writer’s Island
Week #22 prompt: (visual))