Poem-A-Day: Day 39

And I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues

A day saddened
like any none other
not unlike the next
but just as painful to watch
through rose colored shot glasses.
It’s warm,
and the scent stays
but only so long
as the olfactory shuts down
and the migrant workers return
to their pitiful homes,
tired,
washed up and dirty.
Despite their declining senses,
they know they have just lived
one thousand days longer
than anyone had imagined
in the matter of seconds
passing.

The door becomes the subtle release
to the dark and vacant.
It’s cold,
and despite calamity,
some reticent wind is wailing
sad, sad songs.

Poem-A-Day: Day 28

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Some random chip
off the old chopping block
can’t clock cold weather coming
soon enough.
Some snuffling,
a tug at scarves and snoods,
hood strings dangling,
draping on chests and necks,
and chestnuts roasting,
toasting the open pits,
our wallets.
It’s dead and dear,
only one letter difference
as it descends
into our hearts and hearths,
warming socks,
clocks,
and chopping blocks
teeming with holiday hams.
Hamming it up
with family units,
untying, unifying,
It’s beginning to beg to differ:
who, when, where, and
why didn’t I get what I asked for?