no surplus

you can never get
too many hugs,
or too much relief
from things that bug you;

there's no such thing
as too much wishin',
and if you have cancer,
you're always up for
a little more remission;

ah, too cutesy, you say,
and you turn your head away;
too many rhymes,
and not nearly enough time,
spent on things that are
Oh So Important To Say;

eh, with all the death and
destruction around,
and all the lives in need of
reconstruction,
we ought to declare a special
holiday, when everyone gets
to say what they want to say
in their own special way,
without having a goddamned
election or some such other
opportunity for the majority
to stick it to us one more time,
whether or not they've a
decent rhyme, or the sense of
meter to make the rhythm shine;

no such thing as a silly song
to sing, if all you have left is
one simple melody, even off-key,
if a song helps you along, it's your
own serendipity, your own picking
of the lock for which there is no key;

you never can receive too much
unconditional love; it's what makes
falling down make us reach up above;
nor is there a proper quota on fun,
try it, have some, and you will have
won; maybe not the war, but certainly
the battle at hand; and then sing your
off-key song, sing it to beat the band;

oh no, there goes another cliché:
will he spout them until he is carried away?

maybe I will, and maybe I won't, and
I will not say, save only that I never let
naysayers stand in my way; I am here to
preach love, and to ensure that you do not
forget that I hope that all that is wonderful
is all that you get, and then some;

and then some more.



December 22, 2009, for all of you.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.