Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

Idle hands are the devil's workshop Or so I've been told My idle hands have been baking, Writing, reading, typing, clicking, Cooking, cleaning, washing Themselves into a slow oblivion The hands on the clock stand still Yet my hands and mind cannot Idle hours are precious when scarce But a curse when in abundance

Dear Simon, I'm writing this letter to you because I miss you dearly. It seems like only yesterday we were swimming in the creek by the estate, and you commented how my skin glows so deliciously in the sun. But you left me, and that was your choice. Now I'm stranded in this massive villa all alone, with just my echoes as company. I won't dwell on this point too much and guilt you, for I know your abandonment must be weighing heavy on your heart. I'm also writing to tell you about my recent afflictions, as I have no one else who will listen. Roughly six months ago, I began to develop a case of insomnia. Normally my eyelids would flutter closed at no later than midnight, but recently I haven't been able to sleep until three or four o'clock in the morning. When I do manage to fall asleep, the quality of rest is abysmal, filled with short nightmares and night sweats. Laura, our maid, and Helga, the cook, don't sleep in the house, of course, for they have t

I tapped my foot impatiently As the grocery clerk tried to find The code to scan my tomatoes Now, I see that I'd been ungrateful For the backbone of our society: Grocery store workers Truck drivers Post office workers Trash collectors And doctors and nurses, of course Like your spine, you rarely appreciate it When it's not broken But if your spine breaks, then You collapse Thank you to all the unsung heroes Who are making sure we have Dinner to put on the table Food and medicine in stores Clean streets And healthy people We see you and appreciate you

As crimson skies do turn to grey So young trees rattle and decay What once was golden is now bronze Once full of pros, now smeared with cons An apple, forgotten, growing old On the table, ripe with mold It was juicy just yesterday But now it's foreign as a stray As heavy hearts do hollow out So does the aching sense of doubt Once a lovely carefree spree Now, dead, crucified on the tree An apple, forgotten, painful, lonely A single apple, but it's not the only