Sometimes I wonder
if you ever think of me
while you float there
in your own stream of misery.
I’ve been in your place
and, boy howdy, I found
that floating faced up
will beat face-downed.
I came by this knowledge
quite honestly, you see,
as I cruised the banks
of the River Woe-Is-Me,
hoping to go under
at least one time around
on this circular stream where
my feet touched no ground.
And so much of that time
I thought of you and me,
And that’s when I discovered
this persistent sound
of only one heart beating, since
I was the only one around.
I realized that even together,
we’d never be a We.
And my toe then touched bottom,
I don’t think coincidentally.
So I opted to wade ashore,
exhausted by the round and round.
Decided to share this story,
‘cause in for a penny in for a pound.
Now when I lie, to tell you the truth,
my lying is done with verity,
not supine in water, veritas-laced vino
nor even in psychotherapy.
I still think of you, though no longer
around your finger I’m wound.
I just wonder if you’d let me know,
when finally with peace you’ve been crowned.
I remember those nights lying there alone,
since there was nothing better to do,
when the words would come to me —
like a doting parent, a monster
from beneath my bed, a guardian angel, a kiss,
They would tell me a story without making a sound,
not read, just known, not understood, but gospel.
And, like when I grew up, these parents left,
or I left them. The monster went poof and
now demons scratch their nails
across my consciousness. I sold my angel for
thirty pieces of fool’s gold and any kisses
left with you.
I am alone again, in a darkness beyond black,
waiting for words that don’t wish to share my bed.
So today I sit in this lonely place,
closing my eyes to the light and praying
for deliverance from the exile of my own making.
And here you are again, carrying this thing
I never appreciated. You don’t have to love me.
Just sit here by my bed until I’m asleep.
I never told you how much I love your voice.
I can’t hear you, but I’ll never stop listening.
It makes no sense to consider
a life where we never met.
We met and that’s it.
Whatever pebbles we disturbed
started rolling down life’s mountain,
either missing other stones altogether
or eventually triggering landslides
where I always seemed to be standing.
But these avalanches of angst,
or anxiety, never touched you,
just the anger at all my dust
drifting by, obscuring your view
of what you found most important.
Your reflection may not look like
it once did in that mirror pool.
No, age didn’t cause the change.
It’s really the ripples
of concentric circles that your
fleet of pebbles set off now that
they’ve finally come to rest
upon what might’ve always mattered
to you most.
It’s easy to see, from outside not in,
how these obsessions have propelled my life.
Some have been lovely, others brought me sin,
too many of them have caused my life’s strife.
I admit this aloud, my confession,
since you tell me to move on I’ve gotta.
But isn’t kowtowing just more obsession?
Because I’ve done that for you a lotta.
Maybe fixating on one thing’s just passion,
something most would agree is acceptable.
And maybe my way’s not in your fashion,
but don’t toss it in your receptacle.
Besides, obsession’s just thoughts moving me forward.
It’s my compulsions you’ve found so untoward.
Too true. But it’s why I do this so hard and why I’m here. And yeah, some of these rhymes are R-E-A-L-L-Y stretching the bounds of matching corresponding line-ending sounds, but for once I’m not gonna obsess about it.
Sometimes I wonder if
I ever actually felt her warmth,
sensed her, breathed her in.
I look back and question
any place in my life where
I stood in her presence,
held her, or she held me.
I wonder if she was
nothing more than a dream I had,
when I still had dreams,
an ideal that kept me on
a path to be the nice polite boy
and good strong man, since
that was the way they said
one took to win her favor.
But I never did experience
her love and,
like most sore losers,
I have doubts now she
even exists. Perhaps, in this,
my last dream, if I stopped
searching so hard, one day
Peace will find me.
“The years have not been kind,”
we’ve often hear people mutter
when they maybe saw some starlet
from their youth on TV wordlessly profess
herself the victim of her excesses,
and usually an excess of gravity.
But at least she’s still able to tell
the tales of those years
when they made sure she
always had the right light,
an ex who was the right height
(or at least his wallet was),
and access to the right might
to keep her in sight of a public
who one day wouldn’t notice
she’d disappeared like another day
I mention this only because I looked
at myself in such retrospect today,
side-eying the mirror,
taking the measure of the man as I might
someone I’d not seen in years.
I there found a guy with more tread
on his face than the figurative tires
upon which he’s bumped along his winding race.
But I’m only a victim of my overabundant daydreams,
always believing a shiny kind of something
lay out there for me, even if for years
most have been but unkind mirage.
Like the starlet, though, I’m still here
to tell, admittedly with not much gravity,
tales of years I one day hope to profess,
while not always kind, have been
Yes, I’ve been away from all this for a while…and then I went took a month off to introduce myself to my newest granddaughter. And maybe a little to my ever-gloomy self. So, like that little shorty I spent June with, it’s time to start standing up, looking up, and maybe babble some new stories. Today was my first step. Yeah, I may have fallen, but I always get back up again, eventually.
Blue Ridge Parkway North Carolina
The sky claims the upper third of the view in the blue that bears its name. The bottom of the scene, the blue-gray roadway, stretches out ahead like the world’s longest pair of jeans, top-stitched in a Pass/No Pass yellow thread. It’s singing the sonorous song of tar strips against this Yankee’s tires. The middle ground belongs to the pines that curtain off everything to the right and left as if the hills had something to hide. This is the Carolina I observe that lies between a family stretched 700 miles apart. The road offers somnolent monotony and even comfort to a brain that whispers and wonders about what it thinks might lie ahead and what lies might’ve been left behind. The Honda reels in another semi and peels around it to clear the screen of clutter beyond the bugs who lost their own race from here to there. And just as you think closing your eyes wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all, a deer wanders from its place behind the curtain, stage right. It’s gray-beige coat gleams like a the head of a haloed saint in the golden hour now chiming on the gong of sun preparing to make its exit on a day you remember only in stops for coffee, gas, tolls and men’s rooms dressed in tiles foreign as Delaware is to Virginia. But then that eagle, big as a retriever, swoops across its Carolina blue highway and settles upon some scurrying critter who will scurry no more, and you realize there is more life going on around you than in all the lives you’ve lived and loved and lied and lusted and outlasted in your head since you started your sojourn. That’s when you realize here’s your exit and your journey is only just beginning.
I thought I’d combine a couple of prompts for Day #27 of my Poem a Day Challenge. The prompt was for a story poem, which used to be my stock in trade. Also, May 1st begins Story a Day May, which I enjoy playing in. Julie Duffy the doyen of Story a Day, suggested we crank out a warmup story of 100-1,000 words. So here is my free-written double-header piece to warm down from April and warm up for may. Not sure if it’s either a story OR a poem, but it’s written and that’s the important part.