All writing

To dos!
I'm overwhelmed by my to dos
every day, every day

No Use
Burned songs and poems to a crisp
only ash and decay

All year
I couldn't lose
and then she left, no excuse, no excuse
Oh dear,
the sorry state of my to dos

So there
if you would gift me with an evening, a dinner, a walk
I swear
I won't try anything, just talk

Undone,
Undone the list of my to dos,
my to dos, my to dos
As one,
Burned up to ashes, it's no use
it's no use

All year
I couldn't lose
and then she left, no excuse, no excuse
Oh dear,
the sorry state of my to dos

So there
if you would gift me with an evening, a dinner, a walk
I swear
I wouldn't even try to talk

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6QEYvJR_Fs
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Дела!
Меня замучили дела —
каждый день, каждый день, каждый день.
Дотла
Сгорели песни и стихи —
дребедень, дребедень, дребедень!

Весь год
жила-была и вдруг взяла
собрала и ушла.
И вот —
такие грустные дела у меня...

Теперь
Хоть целый вечер подари,
подари, подари —
Поверь:
Я буду только говорить!

Из рук,
из рук вон плохо шли дела,
у меня шли дела.
И вдруг
Сгорели пламенем дотла —
Не дела, а зола...

Весь год
она жила и вдруг взяла
собрала и ушла.
И вот —
опять весёлые дела у меня...

Теперь
Хоть целый вечер подари,
подари, подари —
Поверь:
Не буду даже говорить!

Author notes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6QEYvJR_Fs

Why start it on a Sunday of all days?
Supreme, he could have started on a Friday
and still be done on time with no delays,
the Universe completed, nice and tidy.
The Pentateuch would call it Yom Rishon,
and start the count, though off by a few billion,
list Satan among other hangers on,
and unaware we could have been reptilian,
put humans at the top of all Creation.
How special must we be, it took a week,
six working days to put us in our station,
omnipotence and all? Now that's unique!
Perfection thus achieved, He took a day,
and damn the consequences, come what may.

If history is written by the winners,
our victories are few and far between,
but nonetheless substantial.  No beginners,
though quoted on the subject sight unseen,
we celebrate those few with food and candle
and marvel at the heroes of the past --
they make our losses easier to handle.
We toast each other: free, we're free at last,
but underneath it all, a common worry:
How long this time?  Is freedom here to stay?
As black and white turn grey and red lines blurry,
what options do we have?  Forgive and pray?
A festival of lights, each night a toy.
Joy to the world, indeed.  So, so much joy.

"The chimney", she said, "not the ceiling!"
Prostrated, concussed and still reeling,
The Santa Claus actor
learned timing's a factor
"Once more", she repeated. "With feeling"

Forgiveness and Permission disagreed:
according to a pearl of common wisdom
it's surely better, having done the deed,
and rather than attempting to appease them,
the ones that would say no, and shut their ears,
to simply say "I'm sorry" -- if you're caught.
Produce regretful and abundant tears,
and get your way, not settling for naught,
which like as not would happen if you ask.

"This isn't really fair!" Permission wailed.
"Well, fair or not, accomplishes the task."
Forgiveness answered smugly. "You had failed
to grasp that above all, we value fun.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I am done."

Little Red Riding Hood, learning to ride
often misunderstood, cannot abide
any more hungry wolves, hunters and grandmas
had quite enough of those fairy tale dramas

Author notes: image from pinterest

An angry anthill, having just been kicked,
the workers rushing to repair the breach.
That's Walmart as the lucky shoppers, ticked,
contort themselves for items out of reach.

It squirms and wriggles, pulsing as it flows,
this mass of human, shall we call it flesh?
Unchecked the melee likely comes to blows
and consequently threatens to enmesh

the retail standard in a scandal. Worse,
the evening news will run the lurid clip.
Though amply stocked and furnished, the perverse
impression driving many more to ship.

Some think accounts revert from red to black.
But Walmart knows there is no turning back.

Some friends implore me, with affection:
as if I wasn't under steam,
you're rowing in the wrong direction,
what is this need to get upstream,
to struggle so against the current.
The will to make things are, that aren't.

I got lost as usual.

GPS has been flaky,
so asked God for
directions.

But He wouldn't show me
the error of my Waze.

In fact, he showed me
nothing at all, until
this here tower.

And when I climbed
to the top, this odd,
mysterious sign:
Sky Road.

Is that where I'm
going, I asked,
not really expecting
an answer.

And none came.

Author notes: Photo © 2023 Susanne Donoghue.

A ripple on the surface of the pond
disturbs its eerie, mirror like perfection,
then dissipates, and eager to respond,
the water settles back upon reflection,
that being its true purpose -- sate our need
to probe, indeed to challenge our existence
and validate the basis of our creed:
yes we are in His image, though some distance
remains between what's perfect and what's us.
So easy to reach out for that ideal:
a mere stretch of the hand, so why the fuss?
But try to grasp it -- it was never real...
Recoiling from your touch, the ripples spread,
and taunt you: in His image? Or His stead?

A beach vacation: labor to pretend
that we are meant to lead a life of leisure,
to sift with carefree fingers through the sand,
no, not in search of hidden prize or treasure,
but for a sense of timelessness. To us
the hourglass, a metaphor for being.
Where better then to discourse, to discuss,
or hide, for some, from time itself, all-seeing,
than in the flowing dunes that wrap the shore
in infinite and precious, precious seconds.
Dare waste a whole week's worth, and ask for more,
reality be damned, the siren beckons,
out there where the horizon draws a line.
Come, join with me, she sings. The water's fine.

Some condiments were having a discussion
on topics that are difficult to relish.
"How did  this happen?!", ketchup, flushed with passion,
his tendency to sweeten and embellish
more evident than ever. "How, and why?!"

The others at the table staying quiet,
till mustard, jaundiced, ventured a reply:
"Because they're stronger, ketchup, why deny it,
and boast of fewer calories to boot!
Sure, mayonnaise and ketchup keep on pressing
but their entire effort rendered moot
if no one gets or asks for Russian dressing."

Defiant, ketchup said: "We'll form a lobby,
and stop the spread of curry and wasabi!"