Party Hats

Dancing as if rainbows showed in any storm,
see the clock as a serenade without a dirge,
is to wear a party hat over the heart,
able to find that music in monotony’s vacuum,
grasping with melodious clutches of festive fingers
at the stale air of somber and suffocating, stagnant seconds.

Inside the clown sleeps amid the circus
where the mundane morticians of the soul
perform their lobotomy
to remove the laughter that chuckles in times of silence,
intuitively practiced before somebody said make believe
was a celebration vain and foolish.

Oh if eyes only can remember
how to gaze with a child’s fascination,
replace boredom’s pauper with the wealth of discovery magic,
then we shall have be rich in the treasure,
sparkling with happiness in any junkyard.

Each day becomes so precious
when minutes are gleamed for their splendor,
holding onto what gives life its luster in any dullness.