In the photograph, you are on a swing in city park,
the yellow paint on the support bar is worn and flaking,
you grip the chain, suspended on the tiny rubber seat
your tall man body mashed.
You’re smirking so wide your dimple dances with the light in your eyes
Our first French kiss lingered in the air,
as our future flashed fireworks over your head.
.
.
This photo sits on my desk, and makes me smile every day.
He cries when you sees you,
low whimpers of delight.
His frailness is endearing
if it doesn’t keep you up at night.
He rubs his head against you
he murmurs adoration
When you scratch behind his ears
his tail waves in celebration.
His love is pure and when he looks
so deeply in your eyes
You know these daily trysts
will last until he dies.
.
.
(and if he’s as old as my boy is, that may not be as long as one would hope).
I whisper you
You whisper me
I murmur you
You murmur me
I chortle you
You chortle me
I extrapolate you
I expostulate you
I lose you
.
.
This is my 1900th post to the blog!
It’s been a busy 5 years!
Arms are
the consolation
the comfort
the consideration
arranged around artifice.
Arcing constancy.
I told you
I’d love you forever
You told me you loved me
and we’d be friends forever.
I meant every deluded nuance.
You figured optimism works out
but you also said you couldn’t answer
to what would happen if I snuck into your room
and you woke to my face hovering above you.
That intriguing notion made me giggle at the joke.
But you kept your door locked, just in case.
Did you hear the door knob rattle?
Then the plane took off,
without me hiding in your luggage
as you’d suggested I could.
Our next phone call clarified
the kindness of lies.
and the length reality stretches
to cling to an illusion.
I’ve been grateful for
the elasticity of spurious delusion
every day of my life.
I craft my reality in my imagination:
You are whoever I make you to be.
Do I cover you with armour?
Compel piano mastery?
Some loves last through time:
mythical love need not be mocked.
What you hear, is never what truly was.
It’s what was crafted to tell the tale that needed to be told.
You are a character in the love story,
and I can always kill you off in
literary impunity.
.
Shape poem of a chess piece. Clear? Metaphor of the game. Get it?
Perhaps when
. you are dead
I will find a cache
. of hidden love letters,
. diaries,
. poetry
all proclaiming your passionate
. yearnings,
your adoration recorded
. day after day.
Moments captured on paper
. trapped filaments of bliss
. flashes of us through your eyes.
Perhaps
I will find a cache.
Perhaps
. not.
As these lines came into my head, they came on a suspiciously familiar tune, so I think of these as song lyrics, and I will have to see if my harp and I can turn them into a song at some point. In the meantime, they’re a poem. (I wouldn’t hold your breath for the music, just so you know).
.
You don’t look.
You don’t see.
You don’t hear.
You don’t speak
words she needs you to speak.
You’re not listening
when her heart weeps.
You don’t hear.
You don’t hear!
Please come here.
You must look.
You must see
what she’s trying desperately
to help you see.
You must hear
how she’s struggling with her fears.
You must speak,
whisper love,
for that’s all she truly seeks.
Look.
See.
Hear.
Speak
Love.
Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt in honour of the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere is a poem on a theme of rush and hurry.
(and today I was delighted to discover I am the Day 18 featured poet for yesterday’s social media poem. How lovely!)
.
.
When it’s true
there’s all the time in the world.
Slow down.
.
They say
“Marry in haste, repent in leisure.”
.
I remember seven months
when time stood still
and you were the air I breathed.
.
In haste, married,
then filled a house with babies.
Now they’re gone, but you’re still here
Our leisurely repentance
is luxurious reward for our haste.
.
.
Happy 30th engagement anniversary to my love. (4 months after meeting and 3 months to the wedding!)
Last night
you woke in horror.
“What is it?” I asked.
You shivered, “A nightmare,
one of the worst I’ve had.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
I asked sleepily.
“No,” you said. “I can’t think about it.”
“Am I ever in your nightmares?”
You pondered for a long time.
“No,” you finally said. “Never.”
“Then come closer,” I said,
“I will protect you.”
In the morning, you are gone,
but you have left behind
the sighs of your security
in my arms.
.
.
Today http://www.napowrimo.net prompt is to write an aubade. I am particularly fond of aubades. They are the opposite of a serenade. In a serenade, the lover is trying to entice into the beloved’s bed; in an aubade the morning has come, and the lover must depart. I wrote one last year (or before?) that I’m sure WordPress will link to beneath this post. You may enjoy that one, too. I was quite proud of it.
Oh, you said the words
“This one appreciates me for me!”
and I wonder what you call
that twenty-five years of steadfast devotion
that you tossed.
The weasel face beside you now
does not look like a fair trade
for the pain you caused.
You said those words once before,
if I recall, so perhaps he’ll taste the bitter tang
of your boredom someday.
In the meantime,
we really should just let you go,
and welcome the joy that’s possible
now the wounds have healed.
.
.
http://www.napowrimo.net prompt for Day 4- a love poem without the cliches or a break up poem.
Shawn L. Bird 