An Ordinary Sunday
The ol' carpe diem's fresh outta giddyup;
the morning's few bright aspirations
have stalled and halted,
sullen by the greyside.
Sweet stilts have wilted.
Stubbed-out drag-ends of Joie de Vivre 100s
fust in the ashtray.
Nuke me up a mug of élan vital, wontcha?
Perk my jerky nerves
with a dram of instant vim.
Or chalice me a brute doozy
till my cup stunneth over
Tease me from thought
with neat sweets, Keats.
Lark me, Percy B: spark my dark
with hail! and hark!
William Cullen Bryant,
loft me a lyric on the fringe.
Smack me with thankworthies,
windfalls bonking me on the noggin,
delicious red-graced gifts,
palpable and tart as birth-tears.
Win me back to winsomeness,
muse-mother, god-giver, chancy-dancer.
Alert me to the burgeonings and budges
of all that is new and striving and lively.
Poetry by Thomas D
Read 43 times
Written on 2021-04-13 at 09:28
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