the albatross approaches

it’s far past time to run

a burdened life encroaches

the worst has just begun

caught up in sickly deluge

and straining hard to breathe

no sweet relief or refuge

the sword you cannot sheathe

your best commitment sagging

resentment breeding hate

you find forgiveness lagging

no patience to abate

you want to see improvement

the journey long and hard

no vow of upward movement

both parties spent and scarred

your lover’s reprobation

upon your heart is seared

abhorrent confirmation

as bad as you had feared

there is no good solution

except for you to die

at last the devolution

his money couldn’t buy



Puppet Master

You pull the strings and watch the puppets dance.

You bend them to your will with loving threats.

You tell them lies to put them in a trance.

You keep them busy turning pirouettes.

You build yourself a pedestal on high,

your puppet beasts remaining down below.

From far above the stage they occupy,

you plan their coerced warfare blow by blow.

You promise they will change from wood to boys,

but only if they grant your crazy whims.

You treat them like abandoned, dusty toys,

yet dictate every movement of their limbs.

You wait to hear the crowd is most impressed,

bedazzled by the spectacle they’ve made.

The problems you’ve ignored have been addressed,

your puppets filling orders that you’ve bade.

But someday they will learn the awful truth,

that they were boys before you made them wood,

that innocence was stolen from their youth,

becoming soldiers long before they should.


There once was a mother with hate,

who threw in the garbage the meal on her plate.

There once was a mother who left,

her children in agony, lost and bereft.

There once was a mother who cried,

“Take care of my children as though I have died.”

There once was a mother who moved,

her gross inattentiveness all that she proved.

There once was a mother who judged,

her perfect mascara remaining unsmudged.

There once was a mother turned green,

who couldn’t sustain consequences unseen.

There once was a mother afraid,

unable to live with the choices she made.

There once was a mother absorbed,

expecting to claim what she’d passed and ignored.

There once was a mother who foiled,

inciting a riot amongst those embroiled.

There once was a mother obsessed,

herself the one reason she raided my nest.

There once was a mother with guilt,

so viciously jealous, she smashed what I built.





Discounting its import, a grave mistake,

pretending sex won’t have impact like this;

it’s something you must tend to for the sake

of marriage and your precious wedded bliss.

If you don’t get along, you’re surely doomed,

a fundamental problem you can’t shirk.

The sex won’t be enough, as was assumed.

Both need much more to make the marriage work.

But even if you’ve roots so thick and strong,

as to remain so firmly set in place,

the problems will prevail when sex goes wrong,

and in the end, divorce is what you’ll face.

Good sex can’t save a sinking marriage ship.

Bad sex will tear an everlasting rip.



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