A Stationary Bicycle

26. A stationary bicycle Never travels very far. Nor sniffs the meadow flowers Or sets the evening star. It is far from me to criticize The direction that you ought... But it seems a hellenic tragedy... Being tied to just one spot. The End 27. March is hellish... a troubled soul With a pensive melancholy unconcerned. She grievously mocks the vernal equinox That may yet herald spring's return. She remains a riddled paradox With moods as varied as the flowers Lying trapped beneath her frozen crust Unable to resist her shamanic powers. The cruel winds of March yet linger As the putrid corpse of winter strains Setting a blizzard against the noonday sun As a tormented populous writhes in pain. But on the rarest of occasions When March belays her wry suspicion... Flowers bloom in propitious gratitude To appreciate this peculiar disposition. But March is fickle... like a lover's kiss With her madness born a wormy moon... Laughing at us through tempest eyes And from our privation... stands immune. The End 28. I have a fondness for the honey bee And the persniketiness it requires... With no hint of languor or passivity To reconfigure the bounty I desire. I feel a sense of some indebtedness Pondering the significance of the bee Because no matter be I fair or foul... It performs its dance for me. The End 29. A stygian specter upon my stoop... Its heinous purpose not yet clear. But it ripped me to my very core... It tasked my soul with fear. 'Forgive this late intrusion,' It offered in a throated baritone. 'I am due this night to reap a soul But you neighbor's not at home.' With a firm grip on my mortality... I could think of nothing more. So I called out towards my partner... 'Honey... you're wanted at the door.' The End 30. The prairie hides her treasures Beneath the wheatgrass and the rye. There is no mark... no point of sale To explain why these children died. It is left to us now living to somehow Come to terms with what we see But I'm at a loss to why this happened... It makes no sense to me. The End *Thousands of Children's unmarked graves have been found at indigenous residential schools dating back 120 years. *Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's Your Uncle.