Jenny, don’t you cry

~ Pleasant Street ~ 4 Comments

Don’t you know girl this defeat never stays that long, taking
two rooms in your house, dense and impermeable
every sadness now is just the mortar between the bricks
the glue that keeps all the memories from flying about

In your pink world, you make everything possible
and when he knocked you flat, you thought you were through
but these are changeable times and they pass
not only the good but the bad times too they go

So tie up your hair in a satin bow and sing with me
let’s sing about your sweet cakes and the friends you seek
shall we sing of grief and soft desires, or shall we
burn up on the fire all the memories to make way for new

~ Pleasant Street ~ 3 Comments

Don’t let the birds be liars
chirping to me
of fancy, and
Oh, I do love (does anyone
still believe in)
stardust
my mind wandering
in this soft morning moment
treasured for its ease

Because joy helps you to swallow

~ Pleasant Street ~ 11 Comments

Each day my resolve weakens
under a burden of years
with one truth to be self-evident
that we did not
think everything through


I sweep fetid memory
under his favourite chair, with
each disappointment
relegated to the pantry
behind the oatmeal

I find myself leaving room
for new, sweeter moments
when I am kinder
and remember smiles

Reflections of suns risen and set
and each child’s eyes
and even the mundane, nameless
sudden joys


like that time
he left his cup of tea
atop the car
and we laughed

Again? (so many Mondays)

~ Pleasant Street ~ 2 Comments

Is this Monday again? I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t paying attention. I walked right into it, writing while walking, and sulking while my feet were still moving, and she was above me, in thin air.

I ordered roses for her from the florist. They sent her lilies. How did they know? Were they looking through my window when my face pinched in pain? Did they read my letters and follow my halting steps?

I wish this wasn’t a true story. I wish it was a horror that people read, dog-earing the pages to the ghastly parts they want to show their partners later. I wish it was fiction in the purest sense

At what point did I understand that there was hope? What was elusive, dodging me, and mocking me, is at arm’s length. That is a good deal closer than in my youth, giving up the dreams for thralldom.

Pleasure is fleeting. But it returns, I know it, somewhere around Thursday of the month, a refreshing gust in the middle of swelter.