The Nag

 

 

 

 

The Nag

I try to smile at the morning,

even tho it shambles in

unsure of what to do with itself and 

wants advice. "You're all

the same, " I mutter.

Then you come the way you do,

pulling my hair.

"Look at me, look at me,"you say,

even tho you never see a thing 

except what isn't there.

"Do this, do that!" I pry

your centipede legs

off my neck, hundreds of them, each

one shoe'ed 

with crawling demand.

Talk to me," you insist,

adjusting 

your face in the mirror,

deaf as a blue-eyed white cat.

Explosions and tremors

 

make your bed. Rage

and misunderstanding

call you mother.

Peace will

never know you.

 

 

"I am the goat," I say

"who walks alone,"

and turn to ask

the morning

what I can do.

April 2022

posted for dVerse Poets

Open Link Night

Images: The Smiling Spider, 1891, © Odilon Redon   Public Domain

‘Soulmate’ © Księżycolica, via internet  Fair Use

The Accordion Man

 

 

 

 The Accordion Man

He stands in my head

where the music once lived

like a tongue in a bell

when the ringer is dead,

corroding a little bit more every day.

He came down from the crossroads

with a small spotted dog.

He plays in my ear

til my dreams turn to fog.

The dog wags its tail and then runs away.

His shoes are like blimps.

His face is like claws;

his hands push the buttons

that work the bonesaws,

to slice out a song no one wants him to play.

He won't ever go.

I know that by now.

He plays in my head

and it chirps like a crow

his accordion clatter of skulls on a tray.

He chants all my names. He adds seventy to nine;

but the worst is

his eyes

are sadder than mine.

I could watch them all day.

~August 2021

posted for Fireblossom

at The Sunday Muse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image © Guido Vedovato   Fair Use