Tragic irony: /
Have all you’ve begged and prayed for,/
Tragic irony: /
Have all you’ve begged and prayed for,/
I have a love who
snores, but she adores me. How’d
I get so lucky?
When she plays piano
down the hall,
often she closes the door
so I can’t hear
or be distracted.
Tonight, though,
the door is wide open
as she caresses keys,
improv,
a Church hymn
about space and time
travel.
Each note
takes space
and hangs in the hallway
timeless,
for an eternity,
and I feel myself,
with her,
wrapped in the notes
like a robe
we can share.
As she crosses hands
and moves fingers,
does she know
how that music
(and knowing the words)
fills my head,
my heart,
my soul,
with visions of we,
us,
being there,
in eternal mansions?
Does she feel
that she wants to be
enfolded
with me
for time
and all eternity?
Dear God:
Please let it be so,
that when we are old
and come to dust,
she and I can still hold hands
and sing notes
about
No end
to beauty;
No end
to Love;
No beginning
nor end;
No death above.
Please let us
be so joined
as we hie toward
Your mansion
somewhere good,
in Kolob’s neighborhood.
She riffs a fav’rite/
song. We’ll hie to Kolob. Love/
has no start, no end.
After her tale, it/
was tempting to chant loud and/
long, but we didn’t.
When one you love
ditches you
to go out with others,
you get to placate yourself
by staying home
and re-watching videos
of their big day.
She is a very/
energized woman. When floods/
come, I fear drowning.
My Darling:
My fingers fly across space and keys, anxiously tapping and pounding words which have swollen my heart this evening for far too long.
Why is the connection so slow? Why do I have to wait longingly for some electronic synapse, when the waves in my brain and my heart are racing full speed, threatening to rip the arteries between those two organs asunder.
My Dearest: Tonight we watched a movie of London and research and libraries and University and the Yorkshire coast and countryside. It was of two Literati, one hidden poet and one descendant of two artists long passed and largely forgotten. A romance. A genealogical detective story. A movie full of poetry, love requeited and not, of honesty and deception. It was a film full of scenery and sadness, of whisper and wanting, of two – facedness twice.
Loved one: It was a cinemascope full of everything you, as a romance writer, love. It was and is a tale I should and would, as a romantic poet, gladly embrace with you, fully, completely, deeply.
Except for that one moment, that once scene in that one arbor-windowed room overlooking the ocean, as the waves heaved and foamed and surged and rolled in and out, in and out. It is that moment that, for all its beauty and tenderness, will always break my heart, and will always turn me inside out, and give me pain.
Even now, my beloved, I hear the music, I feel the muse (he called her his Muse, or was it her that called him her Muse?), and instead of rejoicing, my heart is heavy with memory and regret.
Fortunately, that forbidden moment was long ago. Just as she let him drop her hair down, at last, maybe some day I can accept that love, believe that goodness can happen in those moments.
For did not Solomon come of David and Bathsheba?
Perhaps, Love, someday
my pain will away,
and with it will fade regret.
But not yet.
Alas, Loves, not yet.
I left for Georgia./
I took my writing with me./
She really exists!
One should not be in/
love, in the next room, playing/
romantic music.