Life is full of twists …

Life is full of twists and
turns.
The unexpected is the
norm.
You looked for
roses and pretty cards,
'I love you' whispered in your ear,
tickling
and reassuring your fragile
heart.
Dogged determination stands where you
had hoped romance would be.
You were disappointed to learn that I prefer
uncomplicated sex to
romance.
I never have liked those
games.
Still, you are
here
and I am
here
and you continue to
nourish our (not so perfect)
love.

by Thomas Wigington

Late November…

Late November
brought us the first real
winter weather of the year, and
my bones are not
rejoicing.

As a child, I played
outside
on winter days as much as my
dad would permit.
As a young man, I
enjoyed winter quite well.

My tolerance has
receded. I
endure the cold days now, the
winter wind
piercing me like a pointed stick pierces a
marshmallow.

by Thomas Wigington

She lies down in sunlight…

She lies down in sunlight, singing
Not caring who is in earshot
Her heart aching for her darling

He had tight hold of her heartstring
Having tied it all in a knot
She lies down in sunlight, singing

She became his little plaything
Her tender feelings he forgot
Her heart aching for her darling

He was her friend, her everything
She thought their new love was white-hot
She lies down in sunlight, singing

Never suspecting anything
She often dreamed of Camelot
Her heart aching for her darling

The pain throbbing with a dull sting
He would not be her Lancelot
She lies down in sunlight, singing
Her heart aching for her darling

by Thomas Wigington

Claude Monet’s Weeping Willow

Weeping Willow by Claude Monet

Weeping Willow by Claude Monet, 1918-1919. Current location: Kimbell Art Museum, Fort Worth, Texas. Public Domain (http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Claude_Monet_Weeping_Willow.jpg).


Ekphrasis: Claude Monet’s Weeping Willow

Monet paints the light
and the air. You
emerge from the ephemeral
elements, elegant, yes glorious,
Weeping Willow. How inviting,
the world under your
bent boughs, sunbeams intruding
on your cool, blue
shade. Even with the
dapple of sunlight, in
your shadow is where
I want to nap.

by Thomas Wigington

The March to War

Listen! The war drums are beating. Chemical weapons have evidently been used in Syria.The President of The United States says a ‘red line’ has been crossed. America’s allies concur: ‘If the regime in Syria has used chemical weapons, then they must be punished.’

Russia is opposed to military intervention against their long-time ally; China also opposes a military option. Russia predicts that this will be a protracted war. That sounds like a threat—or a promise.

Iran and Hezbollah won’t sit idly by while their ally is attacked: they will retaliate. Still, the war drums sound a hypnotic marching beat.

It is disheartening to think that egos are helping push nations closer to the brink of war; national pride plays a role as well. A red line has been announced, accompanied by vague threats of punitive action should it be disregarded. Shame would tar any leader or nation whose threat rings hollow.

The march to war can take on a momentum that cannot be stopped. It may have already begun. With the U.S. and N.A.T.O. on one side, and Russia on the other, perhaps in a supporting role, no one can predict how long and costly this war will become. Unexpected and undesirable consequences could be legion.

Oh, the drums of war! How abominable!

Word follows word…

Word follows word. Line spills into
Line. What a poem will say
Is unknown until my pen stops.
I hope my words never form
Some silly little love poem, one
So sappy it leaves a bad
Taste on the tongue. A poem
In which your cruelty is exposed	 	 
Would be far more satisfying, considering	 	 
You despise everything my pen writes.

by Thomas Wigington

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