Pseudo Blue Monday.

After a night of frost and jazz and arguing
The January sun dazzles my glass splintered eyes
As I squint into the preternatural azure
Of an ice bright morning sky.
So welcome to blue Monday, the saddest day of the season
According to a Silicon Valley fable
Concocted for our category mad society,
Our sort it, box it, tick it, mad society
That loathes convention but loves the glib and new.
It seems that every moment of our lives
Must have a label, a file, a definition,
To spoof our minds to thinking we are clever,
So absolutely, brighter than Buddha clever,
When we are simply aping the gobbledegook of fashion.

Yes January is the saddest month of all,
That is why I was out late last night in the pub,
Embroiled in jazz, in arguments and drinking,
Occasionally staring blankly at the ceiling,
Occasionally telling a brexiteer where to go.
I cursed the neon lit road as I stumbled home.
I cursed the wind that woke me at half past 7.
I cursed the sun for being too bright this morning,
But daffodil shafts are already fiercely shooting
Slim green arrow tips up through the sticky earth,
And the miniature rose bush is flecked with delicate flowers
As though mid winter is nothing to bother about.
The trouble with being human is the constant heartache
Of trying to live in a world we don`t understand.

I pour a cup of tea and look out at the garden
Through windows laced with frost and broken dreams,
The frail lattice work of all our yesterdays.
In my mind I can see the horses I rode when a child,
Trekking peaceful fields now covered in houses;
And blue Monday suddenly morphs into purple and black.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 
January 20th. - 21st. - 24th. 2020.