The scent of dinner,
Your favourite,
brings you back to life,
calls you from beyond
in a gush of anguish.
Oh, I long to look
into your sparkling eyes,
and serve you soup.
The scent of dinner,
Your favourite,
brings you back to life,
calls you from beyond
in a gush of anguish.
Oh, I long to look
into your sparkling eyes,
and serve you soup.
Every minute that I wait for you
I will be longing for your arms
for the solace of your comfort
for the tenderness of your lips
While I am driving home
I will be wishing to have arrived.
You may not believe it’s true
but I always long to be with you.
Oh
the expression of distraught incredulity
on the dog’s face as
a tantalizing utensil travels above his head
on the way to the sink,
instead of to his dish.
Eleven forty-two
and I’m missing you
You said you’d be back between
eleven thirty and twelve o’clock
I hope you didn’t stop anywhere because it seems
The minutes are hours and I’m powerless
with longing. I guess this means
I love you, even though now it’s
eleven fifty-two
.
.
.
.
(Actually, he came through the door at 11:47, right on schedule. Poetic license!) 🙂
Thank you
though you broke my heart into pieces
that never quite went back together the same way again,
Thank you.
You said I knew you better than anyone. I floated on those words
hopeful they meant forever.
You knew and every word was true.
But knowing didn’t mean staying.
Knowing meant facing painful truths
Knowing didn’t erase you,
it released me.
Thank you.
Adrian, muscles rippling
and glistening from summer sun,
as the girls grip
their nails in their fists, wishing.
Adrian, head emerging from car engine
wringing greasy hands,
and grinning a greeting,
reaching for his shirt,
as the girls glide in, sniffing;
whiffing at pheromones
that hint of moaning, groaning
atonement.
Good girls watching as
Adrian gets ready
for Bible study.
The distance does not change the feelings.
the reeling,
wheeling,
squealing of my soul,
no longer whole.
The space between us stretches
and in the distance you grow small
and old,
But time has folds
in dreams I hold
you close
My soul finds healing.
Though space and time change feelings,
you haven’t changed at all.
on Twitter
A lone loon
intones a poem
lingering long
across the lake.
Its echoing call’s
a prayer chant.
Summer song
whispered on the water
Lonely loon
listens for his lover
lost in
melancholy memories
of sun sambas on waves.
Haunting ghost calls
as cabins close
and summer dies.
.
.
If you haven’t heard a loon call, here is a nice video that captures the mournful quality of their song: