Somewhere between the two highs,
of the holy day and the passing of time,
there comes a low that we all know,
but not its reason or its rhyme.

Stuffed to the gills, full of ills,
from partying and eating too much.
Must get out of bed, throw out the dead,
cleanup and chuck all this stuff.

Down in the dumps, taking my lumps,
from those critical of my play.
I raise another glass, say "Kiss my..."
as the sun up goes down without delay .

Shopping is recessed, mostly depressed,
still decorated but in despair.
The music plays like the end of days,
stuff coming in, going out, going nowhere.

College bowls are played excess displayed,
time to root for the old alma mater.
With deals at the root, big scandals to boot.
The search for knowledge doesn't matter.

And so we go out in the new snow and shout,
"Get me out of this mortgage so shoddy!"
Freezing our toes and falling on our nose,
we retire to the fireplace for a toddy.

For new years will come, old will go,
there will be days with rain, slush, and snow.
But, as slowly the old days turn into new,
our old friends, the doldrums, are here to stew.

Dead in the Doldrums

Dead in the Water


More Poems

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Read War's End, the Novel

Copyright 2008 © Ronald W. Hull