Flush

                                 Brenda Bryant

PINK SATURDAY

FLUSH

The sun, descending in a rush,

Brings, to the sky, this rosy flush.

Trees stand sentinel and say

'The glorious sun is fading away.

We must stand through the chill of night

Patient until the sky is bright,

When, once more, we can raise our heads

Above the painted flower-beds

And take our energy from the orb,

Every mite we can absorb,

To see us through the darkening hours.

What a waiting game is ours!'

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SELF GRATIFICATION

Clearly, everything you write

Will not be greeted with delight.

Some may find it balderdash,

Some may say you have panache.

Fate cannot ever guarantee

Everyone liking what they see.

Some readers may be nauseated

And think your words are over-stated.

Others may cherish every word

And say the critics are absurd.

Write for yourself! You're sure to find

One or two of a similar mind.

You can't please everyone, that's true

So make a point of pleasing YOU!

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