Monday, 23 September 2024

Two Poems by April Ridge

 




Its Your Choice

Sometimes 
on a Monday
I am feeling like 
a dairy cow farmer 
in the 1800s in a 
feral bloom 
of white snake root.

At the start,
it's a long look 
down the barrel of a 
sniper's rifle of a week.

By the time Friday arrives
we are tired, but rejoiceful.
We are ready to rest and
laugh at the black look 
of Monday from afar,
ignoring the gratitude 
we should have at 
having ANY Mondays 
in this strange shared consciousness.

The glee we should feel 
at getting the opportunity
to see another day 
in the weird way 
that we've been gifted this life.

The magnolia trees are still gonna bloom.
The garbage is still going to stink.
The trees and their majestic poses.
The dirty dishes waiting in the sink.
The joyful laughs of chubby babies.
The frightening scream of bobcats in the night.
The leaves changing in the autumn.
The rotten tooth just come to light.
The cool breeze on tired skin.
The nasty uninvited bar fight.
The dreams of childhood hose drinks.
The visions of yourself in flight.

Like shade 
on a hot day,
you could 
turn into this comfort
or you could push it away.




Mick Jagger said

 
'I can't get no satisfaction'.
Yet he also said 
'You can't always get what you want'. 

It seems 
he was confused 
before that summer of love hit.

How many times 
did Mick get hitched 
before he figured out 
that love is compromise?

Love is 
doing the dirty dishes 
when you're both tired.

Love is 
folding that last load of laundry 
because he folded the last five,
and that couch guilt 
will get you up sometimes.

Love is 
sometimes listening 
when listening 
is difficult.

Love is 
eating broccoli 
even though 
you don't like it.

Love is 
saying 'Baby, those pants look great on you!', even when there is a muffin top present 
that you know that they worry 
way too much about and 
you don't give two shits 
about it being there, but you know they do.

Love is 
staying awake on that road trip 
to keep them company 
because they don't like 
being alone when they drive.

Love is 
imagining life with them 
and all of the decades ahead of you
even when you thought 
almost all of your decades 
would be behind you by now.

Love is 
thinking about life 
with two kids,
white picket fence, a mortgage 
and two car payments
and having the ultimate, giant relief 
of knowing that for at least right now
you are parents of two cats 
in a one bedroom apartment for rent 
in the woods, with two cars 
that are both at least 10 years old.

Love is sometimes sacrifice.

Love is compromise.

Love ain't all about getting satisfaction, Mick.

But it sure can give you comfort 
when the times get dark 
and you just want to paint it black.








April Ridge scrawls messages in the night on the clouds that dreams are made of. She whispers sweet nothings to the muses of time and revels in the chance to swim in the deep nothingness of silence, if only to shout ‘Echo’ in it. April prides herself on finding the perfect outfit in which to adorn the skeleton of the soul. She hopes to highlight the needs of poems in danger, on the run, escaping from the need to fit into one form or another, on their way to the freedom of epiphany. April’s debut chapbook Monstrous will appear out of the mist in late September, along with all the spooky stuff. You can find her on Facebook and Instagram.

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