Wednesday, March 23, 2016
because someone has captured their imagination,
there are those who are happy for them,
and those filled with indignation?
They can swoon and sway,
be afflicted or be smitten,
but they cannot possibly feel love.
That song remains unwritten.
Or so they are told.
Love in all it's weight,
no matter how long you wait
is always an idea.
It may start as a flutter
then a flicker,
then an all consuming flame.
Or it may begin the other way
Intense and surreal,
with faults, and lies, and blame.
It might always be innocent.
stoic and light.
Or it may vary on conditions
different from dawn to noon,
and well past midnight.
There's a formula for romance
known by poets, charlatans, marketers and mothers
who have doctored it for thousands of years.
There's a dance between too much and too little
information, time, distance, scent and skin,
trust and yearning, comforts and fears.
They can concoct a potion,
or influence a notion
but they cannot judge what is love.
Love is an idea
powerful and fierce,
and gentle and light.
It's not a burden
nor subject for debate.
It's not thrust upon,
nor is it destiny,
It waxes and wanes like the moon
flows shallow and deep like the river
blows strong as a hurricane or soft as a balmy breeze.
Logic tells us it's chemicals
all released in our head,
while emotion calls on differing pleads.
It could be triggered by a smile, a laugh,
a gaze held a few seconds
longer than expected.
Do you time your gazes?
Plan your laughs, adjust your smiles,
least they be detected?
Love can be sped up,
deferred or ignored.
It can be questioned and tested,
determined to not to be deep enough
not true. Forged!
Love is personal.
Like belief and faith,
Many want to advertise and praise.
Love is an idea
a powerful one
that can consume the days.
It's strong enough
to be questioned, doubted
And can only be proven
to exist deep behind
the loved and lover's mind's eye.
Friday, July 17, 2015
No more planning, no more menus,
just going when the belly begins to growl.
No more cottage cheese, or kale,
or apricot purée in the refrigerator.
They’ve been evicted.
Replaced with day old chicken
and containers of meals too old to recognize.
The cabinets filled with Spaghetti Os
and cereal galore.
It's not as though I cannot cook,
it used to be in my arsenal of charms.
There's no one left to impress.
I don’t push a shopping cart anymore.
I didn't think I'd miss that.
A basket is enough for me,
I scurry through the aisles, my time spent very quick.
Unless I linger because of some scent,
Or, more likely lost.
Where did they move the jams and jelly?
I pace back-and-forth,
all my efficiency evaporating next to the milk.
I could enjoy it.
I should enjoy it, I suppose.
Linger up and down the rows,
make small talk with the single women,
tell a pithy joke near the peaches.
But it seems fruitless.
It’s all a chore I hasten to complete.
And I race to where?
The empty home and blank pages,
screaming to be filled but ignored once more.
I used to run to the coffee shops late in the night,
to escape the sounds and sometimes fury.
A habit not yet broken.
Now, I go to escape the silence that is deafening,
and search for happenstance or serendipity,
random acts or a chance meeting.
Planning luck is a fool's strategy.
I can blast the music louder now,
but the choice in songs are melancholy
and volume mocks their intent.
I go through eggs faster, for some reason,
so there's that.
But the big vat of mayonnaise still lingers.
And no man needs as many cotton balls.
Finally threw away the random perfumes and soaps,
and shower caps of hotels visited,
bleak reminders of less bleak times.
Half the bed remains unused.
Friday, September 06, 2013
The nightfall no relief
The whirling fan blows hot air
for spite, and fuel for grief.
Was promised there'd be thunder
a storm to soak the air
It passed without a whimper
Left only droplets of dispair.
Past the days of longing
for skin to press against.
Logic and reason and knowing
all have been dispensed.
The vessel is now empty
there's nothing more to give.
Murky waters may hold something
but I'm without a sieve.
Used to step along the edge of the continent
and shout from the shore
Would battle imagined seamonsters
as if slaying them would bring a cure.
Lonely is the night
Silent are the days
Quiet in the mornings
Stumble, in a sleep deprived haze.
Deprived of touch
and passionate kissess,
of dreams to share and
Echos of laughter
moans of delight
It's lonely in the silence
and hallow of the night.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Leaning close into each other
Searching for the words to say.
Words elude them
Paragraphs written with only eyes
Lips crease upward
Then part for a kiss
Smiles and sighs
For the things that were missed.
With a trusting grip
from speakers above.
A crooner crooning his thoughts
Be it imagined
Forgotten or lost
It still brings a swooning
No matter the cost.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
fear not what you uncover
while under covers
that do not belong to you.
of laughter and giggles
and first meetings,
They needn't come true
they seldom do
that's why the poets get paid
in accolades and finger snaps
and go hungry
back into the night.
One bulb illuminates their room
like a beacon, not for ships
but for shifts in thinking.
Torn by dreams
planted by another
but nurtured by your fantasies.
And by questions left
unanswered - avoided
as if diseased.
It matters some
but not a lot
to turn the page once more.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
And how she got away.
Never held her hand.
Or heard her sing the song she promised
Would haunt you in your sleep.
Now it haunts you
Never hearing it
As you lay fast awake.
She awakes in a distant morning
Surrounded by azul waters
And the tan arms of the man who loves her
Probably more than you.
Damn you Jimmy Taylor
And your guitar strings
That pull apart the heart.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Monday, September 05, 2011
and most things seldom are.
and that goes a bit too far.
with honesty and moderation.
and reeks of hesitation.
Friday, September 02, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
He courts an absent muse.
His words made to compel
her from the shadows.
Summer evening breezes
blow through open windows
like a whispering paramour.
Reminiscent of gentle kisses,
letters form across the screen
thanks to the subtle stokes
applied to each button
by passionate fingertips.
The right combination of keys
have the power to unlock mysteries
and desires and fears,
laughter and tears.
The varying cadence unfolds.
A quickening pace
by lingering glances,
that caresses themselves
into sultry sentences.
Poetry is his lover now.
Awkward and stilted with the newness
lovely and warm with experience
Intimate thoughts shared
before he drifts to blissful slumber.
Friday, July 22, 2011
But no alarms.
Fight the urge
to fight some more
Take the hit’s
In due time
Things may change
Means lives rearranged.
Might just fret
Despite the clues
For another bruise.
Or there may be
For that, we pray.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
A string of tea lights line the mantel
Flames dance and lick the air
Their shadows weave and waver along the wall.
She cups her hand behind each candle
Like a lover around the nape, before a kiss
One by one she blows, extinguishing them all.
One light remains, a bluish glow
Illuminating a corner of the room
Her computer idle, waiting one half hour past his midnight call.
She dumps her tea, it too grew cold
A yawn, a sigh, but no tear and she powers down for bed
Forgoes the nightly rituals, and up the stairs she crawls
To slumber now and hope of dreams of the distant man who wanders
in and out of her mind and heart, with inconsistent words he sometimes squanders.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Introspection, a specialty of those who try to figure it out
from the comfort of their chair.
Extrospection, for those who prefer to learn
while wind whips through their hair.
Still, there’s beauty in knowing
no matter where one sits on this sphere,
That the other one can bask in the full moon’s light
and for a moment, once again feel near.
The sun and moon,
the planets and stars,
all cut through the sky
but leave no scars.
Inky black waves lap at the shore
ebbing and flowing like a writer’s pen
drifting from margin to margin,
again and again.
A muse, restless within you.
A man, restless without you.
A night, glowing in pale blue.
Problems, you easily sail through.
Inside or out
Head or heart
Doesn’t matter the role
Just play your part.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Used to hold your hand every time we walked.
Now no rings grace your fingers.
Used to hug as a greeting.
Now a grunt may count, as long as it lingers.
Used to smile,
Because you made it come so easy.
It’s been a while
Since I’ve felt love-sick queasy.
Used to have a partner who
Made me feel everything would work out all right.
Used to have a body to hold
As I laid in bed at night.
Used to cry
With belly laugh induced tears of joy.
Never used to feel tossed around
Like a ragged, slobbered on dog’s used toy.
Once upon at time I thought
There was nothing we couldn’t get through.
Never once thought
I’d be standing here alone, trying to figure out what to do.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
These rookies know nothing of love.
They share coffee and misery
Shoptalk of the things they hate
The people, the politics
The stress, the strain
How things will never be the same.
She peppers her queries
Like a tentative cook
“Who are you seeing?”
“Why or why not?”
He was never taught
The subtleties of a prowling woman.
Both worry about money
And where it will come from next.
How they don’t get enough
And too much goes to their ex.
They are beleaguered and torn apart
The corporate world they fight in
No doubt they are both smart,
Except for matters of the heart.
Sometimes their voices grow softer
As if to flirt with the idea of something more.
Clear to those who look on
That he’s the one she adores.
He knows none of this.
Focused on his task
He's a pain in the ass.
Eventually they step outside the cafe
Into the darkness illuminated by the moon
And framed by a wall of glass.
They are ready to part
To finish the night and prepare for another day
But she finds words
That compel him to stay
And then they embrace,
Like colleagues who’ve been through hell
And lived to share their tales.
But it lingers
She does not release
Makes his insistent talking cease.
He stumbles backward,
Stammers and smiles.
She lets him go
The way a fisherman makes good sport.
She turns to her car and says goodnight
He may be hooked,
But he will not sleep well tonight.
And we, us seasoned romantics
Alone in the cafe with our pens and words
And empty cups long grown cold
Witnessed it and know
Whatever it will become
Would never have begun
Sunday, March 06, 2011
Miss the brightness,
Of your eyes.
They used to sparkle.
They used to dance.
Now they're swollen,
And in a trance.
Ready for adventure
and an easy laugh.
Replaced with irritation
Over every gaffe.
What will help them
Come alive once more?
Not enough for me
They look past me,
And toward a future
I can not yet see.