DrBacchus' Journal

For the Weekend Wordsmith

Laugh, Baby
August 15, 2008

Laugh now, little one,
it's all tears ahead -
a vale of tears
through which we mourn
and weep, on even the best
of days.

Laugh, and do not listen
to those who tell you your lot
is a harsh one.
I'll let you in on a little secret,
just between us:
They say that only
because they forgot to laugh
when they had the chance -

thought laughter impious,
thought tears the path
of righteousness.

I'm glad John mentioned
that Jesus wept for his friends.
He'd have done well to note
how often he laughed with them.

So laugh, my angel,
while you're yet a baby,
that when you are old
you will still be young.

From the Weekend Wordsmith

Croissants
August 9, 2008

Flour, some water,
butter - mustn't forget butter,
real butter, not oil or margarine,
but butter -
these are the ingredients
for a memory.
A little Nutella for sweetness,
a café au lait to wash it down,
and the Paris sky
warming our faces and our hearts.

For the Weekend Wordsmith.
Yes, I'm several months behind.

Waiting
August 8, 2008

We watch them waiting
for so many things that will come
too soon.
Waiting for school, for summer, for school again.
Waiting for the weekend, the trip to the zoo,
that package to arrive.

While we wait for things that may not
come at all.

All those years that I waited,
now irretrievable,
opportunities frittered away
while sitting at the red light
without the foresight
to take another road.

Sign
July 7, 2008

You can take it as a sign
if you will.

I think you'd take it as a sign if the sun
rose on Tuesday,
the rain fell in Rio,
the sky grew dark at dusk,
or the ibis' call sounded
particularly morose.

You'd draw in your bone-dry fleece,
and decide you misunderstood your question.

You hear the still small voice
promising war amidst the howling
newsboys announcing armistice,
the bluebird whispering happiness over the sirens.

In the comets and lightning,
you see a sign to cast in your lot
with Julius.

Obligations To Ire

For the Weekend Wordsmith prompt Carrying A Grudge.

It takes enormous endurance
to remain angry,
even when you provide fresh reasons
day following day,
reopening wounds so old,
the original injury is a blur
in the broken rear-view mirror.

Sure, it flares up, fueled
by your careless actions,
selfish remarks, and callous manners,
but, most days, the petulant child
that you have become
merely buzzes, a trapped blue bottle
battering the panes
on a summer day when I'd rather
just be reading by the creek.

The grudge, long since
become an immovable burden,
shackled to me by a cable
of hatred and weary rage,
is to, too heavy to carry --
more like drag.

But so sure as I unfetter,
and try to escape,
you fling a hawser or two
around my raw, chafed ankles,
and remind me of my
obligations to ire.