NOSTALGIA

Concrete jungle

Young parents

Little money

They play

Picnic in the living room

Electric sandwich maker

Becomes hamburger grill

Mom rushes to wipe ketchup

Spilled on "grass" of synthetic carpet

Dad brushes away imaginary ants 

Wonder 

If real ants imagine 

Stealing humans' crumbs

A child's laughter

Fun

(For Poets United,)

LACHRYMAL

source

I thought it was over,

my sensitivity magnifying, 

interpreting any little sadness as big 

giving me heart problems.

But no. My heart's beating, 

its bleeding continues excessive. 

Blood's water easily spills

from my eyes that see too many

microscopic reasons to cry,

as if my tears

recognize the aggregate weight

of earth's sorrow.

Why?

I thought age would make me wise

enough to know futility of tears.

But no, my crying may never be over.

So instead of fighting my tearful nature,

I'll accept that I cry 

because the world is sad.

It's joy is weighted down by heavy dust.

I'll pretend my tears can cleanse it,

fantasize that when I die,

I'll return as morning dew

to cry again and again.

(For Poets United.)