Memories by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art

Memories

Days of Nothing
Waiting for the train,
waiting for it to rain,
lasting only a time
waiting for the next rhyme.
Look! It’s ice cream!
The cream of my dream.
Oh, it would seem
that I will be happy after this meme.
Days of silence
that roll on the hi and low hills.
Oh, look! here comes that bus
to drive us
through the gay wanderings
of love and pain.
Waiting for the train,
waiting for the sun.
The sun shines through
the mountainous dew
again, and again
in this small corner
and that small shrew.
My name is unknown
here in this basement
of time never ending.
When will this end?
This monstrous delight,
every day and every night.
I see everything and nothing tonight
but my sight
is gone with dismay.
I used to see,
I had no idea of my delight.
I used to work
but now it’s a fight,
all bloody and not worth it.
Could it be?
Then I think that I would see.
Who will hold up my remorse,
my plight?
Do I have to have a validator?
A money maker?
Days of nothing
waiting to decay,
waiting to see it on a tray.
I wanted permission
to come out of that nothing.
Have you seen them?
I thought they were worth
the money at birth.
Their dowry was spent,
but they are old and full of dent.
I felt this way when we were young,
but I always had to be hung
on the idea of their wang chung.
Chung never arrived,
and no one ever sung
their future rhymes and reasons
that we all waited for,
their organizational rifts
that were never sensational.
Now it’s adrift
and rippling only at one small point.
The oil now covers that.
Do we do? No, we shan’t
because it’s now so slant,
and the driver is at bay,
left there without the tonnage
being weighed.
Days of nothing, no sleep to grind,
only silent, pent-up wishes,
only silent pent-up thoughts.
Nothing to share
It’s only bare
year after year
nothing to hear
and everything to say.
Oh, it’s another day
full of nothing.
No words, no attributes, no love.
Only weightless words
that drift away unnoticed.
Why go? Why stay? Why bale hay?
To get the horses
to get the sheep,
Oh, they are gone too?
Along with my stew
of brown hue.
Nothing is here,
nothing is there,
nothing, not even a pear.
I could stare
at nothing and no one would know.
No one looks through my eyes
and says their goodbye’s.
No green and brown,
only a fatigued mind and will.
The cross will
and will not
come out of that surly knot.
Expend or extend
are not the words that had no intention,
now its not even a suggestion,
but only a reflection
of memories that I thought would never be called into question.
I thought I would always be called to attention.
By Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art