If holidays get you down, I advise you to skip this. Maybe come back in January, or later? Wait for bright weather? Some of you live in warmer climes -- lucky y'all -- and celebrate different holidays, or know not to take them seriously. If that is the case, this poem might appeal. . .given it has appeal for anyone. Angst tends to attack me around December 11, which was my brother's birthday. Maybe that explains. . .or maybe it is just. . .
L i f e ?? Do what we hafta? Peace!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Chinese water torture" springs to mind.
No reason to complain, and yet. . .what
is it we call them?    Exigencies of Life?
Minor aches and pains count for nothing
by themselves, but bag them with survivor's guilt
and a sense of helplessness over felonies
as evil  as starving children,  as A.I.D.S,
as denying large segments of the population
rights and opportunities,  as homes lost
to nature's tantrums –  surely worsened
by deforestation and rampant development --
and humankind's greed and neglect
and {we are still adding} what we will call
misdemeanors such as I commit  – all I do not do,
the little I give, what I accept, all I cannot,
what and whom I forgive, what and. . .stop!!
Back aches, neck's in a vise, hip's headed south.  
Why do I suspect worse lies waiting to pounce?
That this is all part of a cover-up on my part?  
Note to self.  NO more news!  Can't help
a fraction, let alone, all.   Turn off your TV,
unplug your PC,  fling your radio into the attic.  
Weather radios guilty of less static, but file
it in Thirteen.  Brush up your ostrich act.
Forget fuel expense is climbing almost as fast
as euphemisms for death by war.  Get out
your heating pad, buy an electric blanket.
Toast that stale bagel and rev up Mr. Coffee.   
Read something written way back. . .when?  
Dickens the ticket?   No.  Too many poor,
too many orphans.   Prigs! { sic?}.  Go
back more.  Thomas Hardy?   George Sand?
Too much hypocrisy.   Lost love!
Shakespeare.  Oh, yeah.  Willie never knew
about social injustice.   All of his characters
were sterling,  yeah.  This isn't working.
No place in history to fall back.   No time
when war did not maim and kill.   The poor,
the young, the "different."  No time
when the upper classes failed to rape, rob,
and plow under.  Go Medieval, the rack greets.  
Crusaders are lopping heads and beating
with chains.  Lord.  To think that the human
is said to be the highest animal.  Not.  
Need to call a friend.   Need to give a gift.
Need to volunteer.   Need to throw off
this quilt, get the hell up.  Got company!!

 

(c)  Phyllis Jean Green, 2005