Posts Tagged ‘Trolley’

Revisiting The Rain, The Pain, The Loneliness: Romantic Blogging Poetic Lament

May 29, 2011

Starbucks.
Early morning rain.
Music too loud
Trolley passing.

I’ve been here before.
Sunshine.
Quiet jazz.
Trolley passing.

I had hopes.
Relationships.
Work.
A bright future.

I vowed
I would never return
to a place
where I was alone
with someone in bed.

For decades I lived that
pain.
Reaching out,
touching,
with no response.
No touch.
Pure loneliness.

I vowed
I would never return
to a place
where it was cold
and raining,
and dreary,
holding no hope.

I walked away
from that lonely bed.
I’ll carry that ache,
again,
for awhile,
but this time I remembered
more quickly,
and I’ll run.

Maybe later,
here,
again,
it will be sunny,
with the trolley passing,
and soft music playing.
I won’t be here.

It’s better to be alone,
face upward,
mouth open wide,
facing the rain,
forgetting the pain,
than to get derailed,
again,
by a scheduled trolley.

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Memory of Town Square Winter’s Night: Romantic ConTEXTing Poem

December 17, 2010

The trolley starts, clangs, then stops./
Horse hooves clop/
thru the night air./
Town Square/
is dark,/
but I still carry the spark/
from when we were there.

Continental Trolley? Really?: Revolutionary Blogging Prose

August 25, 2010

A gentle summer breeze flows like gentle, lapping waves over me, ebbing, flowing, and cooling the bright sun streaming through thick-leaved trees from a cloudless azure sky.

Tanned, chemisette-wearing women float by like the undulating colors of a rainbow after a sudden August downburst at sunset. Their long, limber arms and legs, their dancers’ hips, rhythmically sway to the gentle salsa, samba and jazz beats that flow over the orange stucco portico where I observe, write, and inwardly dance.

Across the median’d, deeply-shaded street, a European trolley clangs its familiar bell as it, too, sways past ornate, wrought-ironed passenger stations and street lamps. I smile at the statuesque blonde eating her passion fruit next to me. A lone, glistening, drop of juice glides unnoticed (by her) down her bronzed decoutage’ as a foreign, yet familiar, song from long ago tells of similar beauties on a Brazilian beach. A dozen foreign tongues from low-slung chairs seem to harmonize as the gentle saxophone tones make love in low moan.

It seems so … cosmopolitan.
So … continental.
So …
Salt Lake City?
Really?