=Today and Tomorrow <h4>i.</h4> I'm not concerned with tomorrow;     I think mostly about today.         Today is really all I have,             And memories of yesterday.             But memories count for little,         Which only leaves me with today.     Forget what's past or yet to come — I'll make the most of ev'ry day. <h4>ii.</h4> Tomorrow's such a mystery: Will it bring questions or epiphanies? <blockquote>What new dramas will unfold? What will remain as of old?</blockquote> Will I be inspired or chagrinned? What karmic twists will blow in on the winds? <blockquote>Which dreams and hopes will come true? What will I and won't I do?</blockquote> Will I feel thrilled or deep despair? Will I find joy or more burdens to bear? =No Thoughts of Good-byes I want no thoughts of sad good-byes;     All good things need not end. Don't think of tears or dismal scenes surmise         Of us having to part, my friend. Don't taint happiness with sorrows     That may or may not be; Let's not fret over distant tomorrows —         Love, enjoy our felicity. =Damsel in Distress — Scarred am I, abused and worn, My flesh has been by dull blades torn; Exhausted and of food deprived, Tortured in every way devised, Imprisoned in a tower remote, Cut off by a far-reaching moat, Alone in spiritual darkness bound, Secretly hoping to be found, I languish in such agony — And the sole knave culpable is me. =Unrelated White White is the color of purity, Of innocence, snow, and the divine; Christ always wears white in his pictures; Smiting angels in shining white pose. White is the complexion of Heaven, Of cloudtops and the cleanest of stones, Of faces that probe quizzically And ask me where I was born. =Observation from Observing a Friend <h4>i.</h4> — No pain could have been as terrible As that of a poor wretch at a stake being burned, And yet, no hurt seems quite as horrible To a lover as when True Love's not returned. <h4>ii.</h4> A waste of love it seems to me To love one who loves not; A mad masochistic folly, A rather messy lot. Such unrequited love will hurt. And cause much misery; Hearts will get trampled in the dirt — Such love's futility. I suppose I've made that error And loved so heedlessly, But I would spare friends the torture Of suff'ring needlessly. Repaying folly with foolishness, I've launched my own campaign To point out the sheer fruitlessness With friends otherwise sane. I've tried to present arguments Applying to common sense, But they stay in disagreement Who've taken love's defense. I could rail to the gods above, But though I've tried and try, You cannot cure your friends of love, And sadly, that's no lie. =I was almost never born — I was almost never born, And perhaps I was not meant to be. My father's dreams had been by me shorn; He'd be more were it not for me. My mother on her own conceived; She chose to counter contraception. Willful, she had my father deceived — I was made by that deception. He, a graduate of history, Had desired my mother to abort; But she had so wanted a baby... We pared his education short. On the thirteenth then, I was due; But though the month's thirteenth came and went, Into this world I would not come through And that womb another week lent. Labor pains she has never felt: Instead of contractions, she had blood. She was cut, while I, a harsh blow dealt; My pained cries did that birth room flood. Perhaps I'd tried not to be born To reverse my mother's wanting sin. It's true: I was almost never born... Perhaps I never should have been. =Perishable <h4>i.</h4> Ever darker grow my rhymes, And yet my mood remains just fine. Depression I have kept at bay; Death is no friend of mine. <h4>ii.</h4> Alone, my thoughts a dark turn take Into worlds of death and gloom; I should go out for my own sake, But I brood in this dark room. <h4>iii.</h4> Darkness does not depress me, Nor thoughts of death fill me with dread; We are all perishable — So why bother to lightly tread? =Exuberance For you, my friend, I'll pen a rhyme Replete with exuberance, In celebration of this time We've shared in fond dalliance. If not for you, I do not know What I really would have done; These months so quick would've seemed so slow — Of mirth, I might have known none. So to you I'll write of springtime Waiting just around the bend, Of trees and flowers at their prime, Blue skies that light showers send. I'll write to you of green meadows, Of wide pastures smelling sweet, Of woods through which a clear stream flows 'Til a mist-veiled lake it meets. I'll write you rhymes of forests vast In which mystic creatures thrive, Where we need only speak to cast Magic ancient and alive. But that we have in small degree; It's our safeguarded hideout. And I, beyond the fantasy, Cherish you beyond a doubt. =<a href="./pnotes.html#coventgarden">The Saint of Covent Garden</a> In the midst of Covent Garden Upon those cobblestones so quaint, Poised beside a lofty column Stands an earthly imperfect saint. Like an angel she first appears, Garbed conspicuously in white; Her skin gleams with ghostly pallor, Her long curls seem to give forth light. But draw near to her; you will note Robes so worn as to look dull grey, While those tresses luminescent She'll doff at the end of the day. Yet in such a tattered costume, She stands alone among a throng Of itinerants and idlers Who barely glance at her sidelong. Caring nothing for those masses, She stays imperturbably still Atop a folding pedestal, Creating art by her sheer will: A living, breathing statuette Of a grave nonexistent saint, In the midst of Covent Garden Upon those cobblestones so quaint. =Imperfect Rhyme on a Silly Subject In the kitchen I'd been,     cleaning a mess, When I found an old rag     in a nook pressed. It had been forgotten,     gathering dust, And worse, it had been wet;     mold did encrust. What was left was a heap,     nasty and brown, That to me reminded     of something drowned. I thought first to rinse it —     that did not work: Brown crust turned to brown slime,     which did me irk. A disgusting old pile     it then became. Beyond reclamation —     a minor shame. So out with the rubbish     went the old rag, I tossed it directly     in the trash bag. And then the weird moment     when the thought struck: <i>Will an old me get tossed...</i>     <i>is that my luck?</i>