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 18

Winter Nights

The air smells cold
and the wind calls my name in frigid whisper.

My gloves are on,
but I still feel the sting
of the freeze
tingling fingers
and soul alike.

I take two steps
and numbing air tells me to take ten more.

The wind doesn’t know,
but it tries in vain
to intercept
my veins and thoughts
with a chilling desperation.

My feet are a burden
and I wonder if walking has turned to bitter conversation.

I lay down to death,
but it’s no less a yoke
than it is
some joking anxiousness
waiting to be heard.

The algid air winks
and reaches out to me with compassionate boreal grace.