She, alone, stood
and, debating her own best good,
faced down the gaping abyss
of conscious solo loneliness.
She knew another decision would
be, by others, easily understood
if she, reconsidering, stepped back;
let herself be lead down a different track.
She could easily hike hand in hand
through life’s journey with a man
who had never truly got
the greater knowledge and light she sought.
But she turned her vision to a loftier view;
Spread forth her arms, lept out, and flew.
I see so many dating profiles where people categorize themselves as being a “Hopeless Romantic”. To such women, I wrote this:
Nobody/
should ever be/
a hopeless romantic./
That would be tragic./
Always be hopeful.
Then life’s more full.
Others will draw near
when we’re full of cheer.
The optimistic me
is who women would rather see.
And it also is true:
I prefer a hopeful you.
It brings me heartfelt sorrow and duress
to watch romantics wallow in hopelessness.
She said she is stubborn.
That brings a thrill
when you’re looking for someone
Who is just so strong willed.
With brightly flashing eyes,
With a firmly set jaw;
It came as no surprise:
I liked what I saw.
Someone who likes independence.
Someone who’s waltzed through strife.
Someone with whom I could take a chance
At this dance we call life.
With someone not afraid to go solo, I think it would be fun!
And so I’ll shout “Let’s go! Come on! Get it on!”
A Nana’s deep words and photos
dance with and grip my soul:
Canada geese in flight. Moon rise.
An autumn river’s flow.
Unknown, she grew up and lives
amidst fall’s brightly-hued leaves.
Just as I, as a child, did:
captured by the spells that nature weaves.
She will live free (or die!)
As I did the Midwest.
She even wears the same boots as I!
We could be lovers (or twins at best).
But someone else has gone where I want to go.
I wish I was the one who’d met her long ago.
A long time since
she was blown away
by his response
to Bacon’s beauty.
She was worrying
he might be “too intense”,
but still was pondering:
Could he love thus? 110 percent?
She rejoiced at his understanding,
writ with well-worded intelligence,
comprehending the hidden deeper meaning
of what Sir Francis meant.
Then her never-ending silence
left him wondering where she went.
She reeled him in/
with her smile,/
as though made just for him:/
Beautiful, without guile.
She then (sadly) made him wait
as she nodded sleepily.
He could only anticipate
and try not to do so creepily.
Her smile and her profile
made him seek more.
He’d wait awhile;
what was he looking for?
But then she announced he could not be her mate.
His dreams she trounced: “Like Cinderella, it’s too late!”
The roses were dead once he picked them.
The chocolate, she said, made her fat.
The kitchen wasn’t remodeled like she wanted.
And now look at where she is at.
Remember each time he surprised her
with a new dress that was colored wrong?
Or the theater tickets that were on a bad night?
Or the album that had the wrong song?
Just like that coastal vacation
when she said she’d rather stay home.
Or when he reserved a place at that nice restaurant:
He hopes that she’s happy alone.
She can gaze at her jewels: The few things he got right.
Perhaps they’ll warm her as she sleeps by herself tonight.
OR
The roses were dead once I picked them.
The chocolate, you said, made you fat.
The kitchen wasn’t remodeled like you wanted.
And now look at where you are at.
Remember each time I surprised you
with a dress that was colored wrong.
Or the theater tickets that were on a bad night.
Or the album that had the wrong song.
Just like that coastal vacation
when you said you’d rather stay home.
Or when I reserved a place at that nice restaurant:
I hope that you’re happy alone.
You can gaze at your jewels: At least I got those right.
I hope they warm you as you sleep by yourself tonight.
I had heard
his rhyming words
before,
espousing how glor-
ious he thought his love.
How she was sent from above.
How she was his true lover.
How he could not imagine another.
And now,
somehow,
he takes up his pen
and again
speaks of his love, sweet.
How she is so neat.
And though this one
is maybe not as fun,
she is not the bummer
as was his love of last summer.
So what am I to believe?
He scarcely took time to grieve
his previous girl
whom (he proclaimed to the world)
was sent to him.
Did she become some whim?
The even deeper question
to this public indigestion
is: Where comes the need to publicly proclaim
about a latest passionate love and flame?
I don’t even want to look
at such posts on Facebook,
because I know I’ll read there
about some new love so true and rare.
Just like we all did last year
about someone who was thought equally dear.
Why does the poet yet again
(as he did back so earnestly then)
feel the need to shout
publicly out
someone he’s now crazy about?
(And it’s not just him.
Many others, seemingly on a whim,
positively state
they’ve found their true mate.)
(And we knowingly smile
and wait awhile
until the new romance starts to fade
like morning dew in a sun-drenched glade).
Why don’t such lovers, instead,
(knowing how emotions so oft are mislead)
watch, wait and see
if the new “we”
(this romantic she plus he)
can make that commitment
which is truly heaven-sent
for eternity?
We can, (and should) I suppose,
publicly disclose
when we are fond of one,
how we, together, have fun.
But to loudly and publicly proclaim
“She’s the ONE!” seems a bit inane.
If this is indeed a love so rare
why not be quiet and keep it hidden there?
At least until it grows and blossoms forth.
At least until love has truly run its course
and we’re ready to shout “S/he and me
will now be us for eternity?”
I, for one, have my doubts
that such proclaimed “true love” will last out,
(just based on experience;
knowing how other ones went.)
Of course, when we hear such a new boast,
we could, I guess, prepare a generic post (or toast):
“OH! You both make such a cute pair!
You and [insert the new love’s name here____].”
That is not at all to say
that the poet should be silent. No way!
We may, in messages between us
expound our full love beyond what ever was.
Such private notes of sweetest passion
put us in Browning’s and Tennyson’s fashion.
Some lovers may in the future find
hope in our quiet proclaimed love divine.
But to place such words out for all to see
Feels like love (and such thoughts) come cheaply.
That it doesn’t really matter who:
We just need someone to publicly woo.
Call me a jaded cynic.
Perhaps it’s true.
But I’ll not mimic
exposing my love to view.
At least ’til I know, and am sure
She’s the one who I’ve searched for.
Then, it would seem quite right
To write a sonnet for our wedding invite.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 