Stuff I do, or don't do;
Things that inspire me;
by Sylvia Pacheco (me)
[winter photo I snapped]
There will be a day when my charm wears off
When the busy swells of life will take over
And they’ll have swelled me over.
When the sweet honey moon turns into a pale gray spot in the sky
When the last sun sets, then I
Will have made it far away from your thoughts
Once bubbled, now sinking neath the surface of the pool of your conscious mind,
Sinking deeper, and forgotten with time.
There will be a day when you will have misplaced the memory of
My simple graces and my various faces
A day when you will become immune and out of tune to my song ,
And I dread the day that happens,
For it always happens, as it happens
And now it won’t be long
Before you discard me like a used towel
Or the movement of a bowel
into the deep, dark abyss of your past
A night when goodnights rust
Eroding promises we keep
A night when the distance will be too great
And the weight
Of missing you will sink this ship
When twin souls attached at the hip will
Part ways and never reconnect
By Sylvia Pacheco (c) 2013
Confined to a singular tower
The artist, in the midnight hour
Plays his fiddle and wails and moans—
He plays his fiddle for his fiddle alone.
From his birth he was selected
For the path of the Rejected
His mother died while birthing him—
What a terrible way to begin.
Confined to a single room,
The artist plays a lonely tune
And, never to make the ladies swoon—
He serenades and woos the moon.
All his life he was an outcast
Walking streets, head bent, eyes downcast
Ideas swarming in his head—
Thoughts never to be heard or said.
Confined so, he reflects on life
And watches birds sing in mid-flight
Oh if only he could fly—
He’d sing until his throat went dry.
His fiddle and he, he and his fiddle
Nothing in the world could belittle
The sweet sadness that it brings—
When gliding horse hairs across strings.
Confined to a single bed,
His fiddle lying near his head,
The artist dreams of thoughts he had
And thinks, “How peaceful…” and then—
[Image is a crop of “Netherlandish Proverbs,” a painting by Breugel.]