Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Post-Breakup Pomes


Static on the line
crackling in our last phone talk,
there between us still.


Though I shake him,
I cannot wake him,
for he is sleeping.
I sang a song he used to love,
I stroke his face so tenderly,
but silent is he.
Even the leaves of the cypress tree
are still in the breeze.
How can he abandon me,
ignoring my pleas?
Bound together,
he said we were,
Though I shake him,
I cannot wake him,
for he is sleeping.


It was a stranger
who called me up
and spoke those words with intent
of dividing you and me.
An impostor, an intruder
in the house of love.
Not you.

The words that stranger spoke,
without hope, or love, or truth--
words of contempt,
hateful, ungrateful--
they did not come from you.
It was a stranger's voice
that spoke to me.
Not yours.

I just wanted you to know
about this person
who called me up,
pretending to be you.
I don't know why
he wants to hurt me
and spit on my heart.
I just take comfort in knowing
he's not and never could be
the one I love,
the one so close to me--
the real you.


Pour more wine for me
and my companions, too,
we're mourning love's brevity,
and, oh Love, I am missing you.

That day beside the river
when you leaned on me, tired one,
I wished to be
your resting-place forever.
So soon, too soon our love was done...

Roaming the field with you at night
I marveled at the beauty of your face,
pale in starlight.
Magical, that time and place...

That night we danced together,
fast and slow,
you too were enamored and entranced,
and now that is gone...

One more glass--enough, just so--
I'll sit here til nightfall,
musing on its ruby glow,
lovely as our love,
before we drank it all.


You asked me to hold
a candle for you,
to bring you luck,
to light your way.

Then we parted
and you are gone
from my life,
but in my heart
the candle burns still,
flickering low,
sometimes almost dying out,
but always flaring up again,
high and bright,
that infinitely stubborn, momentary,
immutable love light.


Feh! so
Fickle--why did I
Fall for him in the
First place? Why should I give a
F--ck about that

*Fake name
For him


"Poems are never finished,
only abandoned," I told someone today.
So it is with us, confrere--
we've left off writing our love poem
and we'll get back to it,
someday, somehow, somewhere.


Carl J. Schroeder said...

If we never leave ourselves, there must be others who will give us that courtesy too, starting with God, working its way down to a lover. At least, that's what I tell myself, as I promise to always be there. Thank you Jen for showing how much you love, it's good to share.

Jen said...

Thanks Carl.

Leavetakings are also arrivals, and an opportunity to know ourselves more fully and deeply. As Emerson said, "When half-gods go, the gods arrive."