The Parasite

I am
The perfect parasite.
I study the squander of my life.
The white plastic chair is my throne
And the screen my newly wedded wife.

I don’t want to do anything:
Don’t want to read and don’t want to talk,
I don’t want to raise and I don’t need to move,
I don’t plan to cook and refuse to walk,
Don’t want to spoil
The parasite groove.

I am just another useless mouth to feed-
If I could, I’d especially avoid thinking,
Just give me some water and spread the heat
Then watch me starring at the wall
Without blinking.

What will I do tonight?
I will dream about sheep
Who are too lazy to run and too heavy to jump.
Seriously,
I don’t know, nor do I really care,
Out of boredom and weariness,
I might decide to cut off my hair.

Suddenly,
A thought crosses my turbid mind
Such enterprise entails exceedingly hard labour!
The parasite in me is one of a kind,
So I decided to do him a favour:
I will leave my look as it is, and
Complete the voyage on my Pacific cruise
Two seagulls pass me a drink (I needed a hand),
As the sun whistles to the notes of
The parasite blues.

P.J.

Loneliness

It is cold today
Indeed the rain is falling and I am alone.
Thoughts of life and love,
meaningless to anyone but myself.
I am alone.
They watch me, their eyes not knowing,
knowing nothing of what they see.
I am but another creature, alone.
They scurry on the surface, unaware,
unaware of the life below
when you are alone.

Loneliness, not a burden nor a sorrow,
but a time of solace, of deepness
never to be shared, never to be understood.
They can never reach the place where I am
And I know I will never reach the place where they are.
I know I don't want to reach that place.
True happiness is here, unmisted.
Unmisted by smiles or laughter,
unmisted by the joys of company.

To find true happiness,
to know if one is truly happy,
he must be happy alone.


Poem by Rebecca Drollinger
Photo by P.J.

The Lake

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.


Edgar Allan Poe