Don’t sweat the big stuff

Don’t sweat the big stuff.
It’s probably fine and you’re doing fine.
You’re probably doing better than fine.
You’re probably doing great.
Even if it doesn’t feel fine–
It’s fine.
Don’t sweat the big stuff.
Don’t sweat the small stuff either.
But the big stuff?–
No, definitely don’t sweat that.


Ideas that rhyme are probably the best ideas.
Is there any concept too complex to be expressed in rhyming couplets?

The universe is very large.
We’re still not sure who’s in charge.

I love you a lot but it hurts a lot too;
The pain is worth it for the pleasure of you.

If you want a pet rabbit you have to buy two
Because they get lonely despite living with you.

I don’t know if there’s a god that lives in the sky
But it’s good to be good– search for how, not for why.

Some lives are long and for some the time flies
Any which way, everyone dies.

Money is important but it’s not the main thing.
Pennies buy independence but greed is a sin.

When building a building best to start from the ground.
The roof goes on top and the walls go around.

If you need any more advice, just let me know.

Where do all the squirrels go?

Where do all the squirrels go?
Do they sleep in beds?
Do they nest up in the trees
Where leaves protect their heads?
Do they hide near river banks
And burrow in the mud?
Do they hunker down in caves
With campfires made of wood?

I don’t know where the squirrels go
But I hope that they are well.
I hope that they feel safe and warm
Throughout this chilly spell.

Two cats

Two cats play piano;
Soft paws on ivory keys
Stumbling into unintentional melodies.
Whiskers tickle thick chords
As hammers hit hard harmonies.

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The problem is sandwiches

My problem has always been sandwiches.

Eight-years-old, explaining to my mum that love is in sandwiches;
That you really know someone loves you if they cut your sandwich into quarters.
Not halves.
Love was the effort in that extra cut.

Eight-years-old, already accustomed to quantifying love
In sandwiches.
Loved more or less each day
By butter spread to edges and cheese thinly sliced.

My mother did not know to show love in this way
Until I told her.

Eight-years-old, I gifted her the guilt of sandwiches.
Knowing now the importance I’d ascribed to this arbitrary detail,
Her thoughts filled with years of sandwiches.
Each sandwich that followed cut precisely into squares.

Growing older, I became embarrassed
Of her delicately quartered sandwiches;
Forgot that extra cut was love.
Too self-conscious, I shouted at her to stop. The other kids had halves.

Now, an adult, I make my own lunch.
Sometimes sandwiches on simple days.

Now an adult,
I still make the same mistakes.


I want to write you songs

I often write you poems, but I want to write you songs.

Simple syllable structures do not adequately capture your complexities.
The staccato of careful couplets cannot convey your dulcet dynamism.

I would sing to you in bird squawks and animal growls;
My shy tongue unable enunciate your beauty.
Even in song, I would fail to articulate your significance to me.

You are pure symphony.
An orchestra would better capture the melodic cacophony of your perfect contradictions.

I would transpose words for notes and beats;
Encode emotion in a worthier form of art.
I would write refrains for us to hum together;
A new lexicon of love.

I want to write you songs but instead I write you poems

Knowing words alone, no matter how carefully arranged,
Will never quite be enough.


Prayer for the unfucked days

Thank you for the unfucked days.

For the okay days, the just alright days,
The good-enough-is-good-enough days:
We thank you.

Please give us the awareness
To take note of these unfucked days,
And the presence of mind to cherish them.

And on the days that are fucked,
Please give us the wisdom to know
That more unfucked days will follow.

For the unfucked days that we somehow fuck up,
Please grant us forgiveness
And the generosity to allow ourselves to move on.

And once more,
Please give us the wisdom to know
That more unfucked days will follow.


Fresh herbs in the freezer

In this fantasy, I keep fresh herbs in the freezer.
I’ve gained enough wisdom to accept that potted plants will always wither on my windowsill. It’s okay.
There is perfect satisfaction as I crumble frosted foliage between my fingers.
I savour the slow release of aroma as I watch lively greens unthaw, and then melt into a wholesome meal.

I’m always in heels. My calves are bare and smooth.
Elegant hems of feminine fabrics graze my soft knees.
My hair is long but neat. I wear make-up but not too much.
I smell of my mum’s moisturiser and I regularly wash my hands.
I catch myself smiling when I look in the mirror.
I wear loose warm knits. I give the safest hugs.

It’s sunny most days. I sit at the kitchen table and sip milky coffee.
I thumb through a newspaper; its fresh ink is tacky on my fingers.
A cryptic crossword keeps me busy until mid-morning but I’m always able to complete it.

On the days when it rains, I listen. Polite droplets whisper good morning against the glass of my streak-less windows.
There is quiet applause from the trees outside as their leaves shake off the downpour.
I always feel inspired.

In this fantasy, the spices in my cupboard are kept in matching glass jars.
I have one set of cutlery. Every utensil fits my hand precisely and is just the right weight.
I buy myself flowers. I make eggs for breakfast.
The yolks are always runny and the whites are always set.


Bear fight

Bear fightI had a spot of bother and was challenged to a fight.
My bear-friend said he’d help me like a brave Arthurian knight.
I thought he’d be an ally with his teeth and claws so scary!
Alas, in actuality, the situation got quite hairy.