Robert Herrick once wrote
"when love speechless is
she doth Express a
depth of love"
an idea I embrace with my whole heart
even when this may
not be true
silence may be golden
but it can also be cruel
the not knowing
of this way or that
what point on the compass she leans
and what may seem
like signs of fair
weather
a darkness clings
unsuspected storm clouds
hovering with their
full sails
filled of thunder and
lightning
I always want what I can’t have, like a beggar, staring
through the gate to some Beverly Hill mansion, the long legs, the luxurious
lashes, the lips to kiss, and miss, this desperation – too intense to satisfy
and so much to rely on what I wish could happen – if only in dreams, if maybe I
ask nicely, or persistently, if I crawl on hands and knees, maybe she will be
pleases, unlocking the gate to her mansion, for a moment, for a life time, just
this one time, me wanting what I can’t have, don’t deserve, yet ant’ resist, persistent
in begging, palms up, willing to give her what she desires for just a bit of access,
and I wonder, if I asked enough times, for long enough, and seem desperate
enough, she might give in, give me what I know I shouldn’t have, while I beg
until it hurts.
It is always possible to grow,
even after you have assumed
everything has died,
the promise of spring
held out
, yet still denied,
a slow, mournful stroll through
the dismal landscape life becomes
in the dead of winter.
Spring always follows,
yet not always as soon as we need,
sometimes a false
spring,
like a false dawn,
raising unrealistic hopes,
stirring up wishes
that may never become real.
After so long out in the cold,
you’d think you’d be
stronger,
the passion of youth
sustaining you
even as youth fades,
the Disney tale
expressed as fraud
when Toto pulls back the curtain
to show just how the
world really works,
all those ugly gears
grinding.
Shakespeare said her eyes
are not as bright as sunlight
and coral far more
red than her lips
her breast not nearly as white as snow
and her hair is black as wire
and if her cheeks blush
it is not nearly as
comely as a rose
and her breath not nearly as sweet
and her voice does not always music make
and no goddess is she
that floats above the ground
on what she strides
and yet…
and yet…
this love of his is
is still Divine
more Worthy than precious stones
more potent than sun,
rose or coral
and for all this he
loves her still
so as for him
as go I as well
I don't know
what to make of it
this altered reality
this game of tag
something I can
no longer touch
even though I still feel it
this coming and going
then going again
these visitations
as if by saints who are not saints
or space aliens who abduct us
and return us to our
old reality
fundamentally changed
not so much for the worst
but utterly different
so it is impossible to go on
as we were like a
Time Warp
we steered into a different track
to a different destination
we never intended to steer for
and now can't stop ourselves from going to only you are no
longer part of that ride or it's destination but a site we see
out the window of
this train
of fading images, a billboard advertising
a life we might have had
had we've been wise enough
to get off the train
in time
It is not
cold so much as not the same.
You can
only rub a coin for so long
before the
imprint vanished,
or your
thumb runs out of skin.
Maybe the
word is remote,
this
estranged sense that
I'm no longer front in the line.
Maybe the
clues came even before
I felt put out,
the
question about the other man
I consider my friend,
his book on her bed where mine used to be.
Maybe I
took down her picture
too often
from my page,
unable to bear looking at it,
not because she was any less beautiful,
but because of how it made me feel,
like a
duckling following behind
a flock of duckling, suddenly finding myself
last.
The clues
there like a detective novel,
only I was not wise enough
to pick up
on them until the damage was done
and she put me out to pasture,
and brought someone else in to her barn,
not cold,
not hostile, just remote
as if I longer matter in whatever plans
she had
cooking on her stove,
the last
duckling.
I do not know
What is wrong with him,
Except my best guess
That his misses her
(as we all do
And always will),
Having had his taste
Of something so sweet
We can’t imagine
Life without it,
And yet, somethings
Must come to an end,
No matter how good
They may taste,
And the wasteland
We live in
After having been
Cast from Eden
Seems all the worse
For our needing
To navigate it alone.
I can’t say
What he feels
Is love,
Since I don’t always
Know what love is,
And only get
The echoes of what
I think it might be,
He aching the way
I ached,
When she cast me out
Of the paradise
Of her life,
I suspect he doesn’t
Even know her,
To understand the pain
She endures,
Which has nothing
To do with either of us,
We look in a mirror
And see what
We want to see,
Not what is
