Poems

Accomplishment was wrecked by Indecision.
The two becoming enemies of sorts.
The former never lacking wit or vision,
but often failed, according to reports,
in bringing her initiatives to closure.
Left them to flail, while trying to decide,
to later find them dying of exposure,
Accomplishment is once again denied.
Attempting each and every panacea,
a spreadsheet with a checklist, pros and cons,
she simply couldn't choose, had no idea,
how to convert her zeros into ones,
when finally, deserving of a break,
she made a good decision by mistake.

Admit it: you knew better than to click,
but now entrapped and clicking like a zombie,
still searching for the promised nifty trick,
avoiding popup ads from Abercrombie
& Fitch --  boy, they do wonders with those buttons,
the Next one moves about so that you miss.
Wait, what is that? A diet made for gluttons!?
No, must continue, "x" it out, dismiss....
As you do battle armed with but a mouse
(for some of you it's just an index finger)
you wonder if this happens to your spouse
when he is "hard at work"...but do not linger.
Aha, that's better, here's the trick at last.
Turns out the nifty diet is a fast.

Turns out the nifty diet is a fast.
Annoyed that you've just wasted a whole hour,
you check the news: some woman has been cast
as Hamlet.  Speaker's struggling for power,
what else is new, elections coming up,
the Middle East continues medieval,
the Rangers hope to win the Stanley Cup,
and Ivies can't distinguish good from evil,
so basically the same as yesterday.
Remember when the rapid pace of change
was hurtling towards us, come what may?
What happened? Tell me, doesn't it feel strange
that we appear so stuck with change ascendant?
Embittered, disillusioned and dependent.

Embittered, disillusioned and dependent.
We, each of us, reliant on our meds,
ashamed, perhaps, but wholly unrepentant,
our dignity and grace all torn to shreds,
we persevere in rituals of healing
pretending to empower, to connect,
as if one could fix anything by kneeling,
while adding hopes and prayers for effect.
Increasingly we're segmented and tribal,
so like the Ten that went and gotten lost,
to earn no further mention in the Bible,
oblivion their fate, and at what cost.
No longer as a whole, no thing in common.
Alone on Christmas Eve.  I guess it's ramen.

Alone on Christmas Eve.  I guess it's ramen.
Another business trip that can't be moved,
I like it, though, because come feast or famine
at least I'm getting paid, and life's improved.
Oh, I will call her soon, now, don't you worry,
to blow a kiss, and wish the kids good night,
and tell her that for now it's just a flurry,
but I won't make the redeye for my flight.
And then the bar, where others of my kind,
each having done their best to do their duty,
will congregate, filled with the hope to find
a kindred spirit, and a little booty.
Do I feel guilty?  Do you think she knows?
Outside, the blizzard bellows as it blows.

Outside, the blizzard bellows as it blows.
Its huff and puff soon decorates the windows
in delicate designs, and each one glows
with tiny sparks and embers.  Trapped within those,
the fireplace still tends to its intent,
but you can't help but feel that something's missing,
or is it the champagne that's long since spent,
red lipstick tainted flutes.  Lips meant for kissing,
now always in a frown, so cold, unfeeling...
Appearances maintained, you do your best.
The house looks great, its festive and appealing,
so welcoming, so warm that any guest
would leave it thinking: aren't these two great!
How short the distance between love and hate.

How short the distance between love and hate.
A thin, thin line, so goes the ancient wisdom,
yet thick enough for us, at any rate.
We wallow in indifference to appease them:
our children -- no, our children cannot know
that they are the result of having settled,
their parents' love is mostly just for show,
fulfillment of a dream that has been peddled
for countless generations to maintain
the  semblance of a good and proper order:
a husband who's in charge of his domain,
his wife, to boot, and whether he adored her,
or simply tolerated, she's still Mother.
Unhappy couples, each unlike the other.

Unhappy couples, each unlike the other.
Is that a Tolstoy quote from his old book?
They find a way to strangle love, to smother
what lied between them.  Better not to look.
We do not, no, we cannot understand.
Our feelings are too maudlin, too sappy.
For those of us who're dealt a better hand,
a nagging question: can't they just be happy?
Is there some special secret to the task?
No shortage of advisors and well wishers.
You've but to raise a hand, begin to ask,
and they're at work repairing cracks and fissures.
The answer I subscribe to and espouse:
We know, deep down, the day we make our vows.

A snack, hon. Is there anything to eat?
The way to a man's heart still through his stomach,
and Rose, if that's her real name, still sweet --
she runs a little house on the Potomac,
where they make men of power feel at home.
Yes everything is just like in the books
inspired by the ancients, let's pick Rome,
but better dental hygiene from the looks
of Rose's perfect smile, and all is well.
It's grapes and cheese for supper, with champagne.
He'll try ignore the message on the cell,
and in the morning, back to his campaign.
For now, though, can relax and not be nervous.
Love sold and packaged, neatly, as a service.

Love sold and packaged, neatly, as a service,
and none of this for better or for worse.
The marriage institution meant to serve us,
for some a blessing and for others curse,
why can't it be just like a Vegas wedding,
a happy, sloppy, tipsy love affair,
with someone at the ready: change the bedding
and leave no sign that anyone's been there.
We study our relationships like car wrecks:
slow down for a quick look, and then rush by,
and passing judgement notice all their defects:
if it's this bad then someone better die.
No, nothing neat and packaged about love.
Of cert not of the consequence thereof.

Of cert not of the consequence thereof.
You won't hear that one from the mouth of preachers,
when talking about marriage, about love,
or risk a startled snicker from the bleachers.
Since love is an invention of the mind,
a pirouetting egret serves its purpose,
so long as he's the procreating kind,
but so does any bird, so why the circus?
Did Nature have a different kind of goal
than merely the survival of the fittest?
A salmon swims upstream to chase his shoal,
but surely of a mind to prove the neatest,
the bestest, fastest salmon he can be.
Still hopes to find his soulmate in the sea.

To say I love you, I shall write a sonnet.
I know, I know, the fashion is long out.
A woman would no more go with a bonnet
than grandma would have thought to go without,
And serenades? As like as not to hinder
the questing of a modern Cyrano.
He's better off to list himself on Tinder.
He'll still get the occasional "oh, no!"
when prospects see that nose in real life,
but others thinking opposites attract,
uninterested in the title "wife",
might nonetheless employ him for the act.
So that is modern love, but I'm old-fashioned.
I'll settle for a sonnet, if impassioned.

I'll settle for a sonnet, if impassioned.
Is there a point to any other kind?
True love cannot be limited or rationed,
a creature of the heart, not of the mind.
Unbounded, unconstrained and all consuming,
love cannot wait to taste you, to inhale
the perfume of a field of poppies blooming,
to search for words but ultimately fail,
because, how could it not? As a mere mortal
who's blessed with but a glimpse of the divine,
I'm praying for a covenant, a portal,
a sip of sacred, sacramental wine
that cannot be discarded or dismissed.
I lick my lips: remember how we kissed?

I lick my lips: remember how we kissed?
A taste of ripened strawberries still lingers.
I found myself unable to resist
the running of your hair right through my fingers.
To gently stroke your soft, peach colored cheek
and trace your pouty lips and teasing tongue,
the thought of it still makes a man grow weak.
Whatever may be wasted on the young,
it isn't love, I think we've proved that much,
or have we? Has the passing of the years
done anything to dull or numb your touch?
Is love still just as animal, as fierce?
Yes, strawberries, I think, oh they were sweet!
A snack, hon? Is there anything to eat?

A felony or misdemeanor.
These words are poorly understood.
One seems the opposite of meaner,
the other feels as if it should,
but if it was in fact its inverse,
then you might think the deed's indeed worse,
whereas the opposite is true,
depending on your point of view.
I will elucidate, as follows:
back when the French had ruled the day
to felonize meant to betray,
and thus go swinging from the gallows.
Betrayal's always of a kind.
The other crimes? We pay no mind.

A laugh, a laugh, my kingdom for a laugh!
Not something that you're gonna hear too often,
but if you're prone to speaking off the cuff,
without the common sense to mince or soften
expressions of your effervescent glee,
regardless of their circumstance or placement,
then whether paid for, or indeed for free,
deriving satisfaction from abasement
will put you at the risk of losing all.
Yes, silence is still worth its weight in gold
and speech still free, but there's a protocol,
unwritten though it is, and jokes grow old.
And so it turns that in the Land of Woke,
you'll lose entire kingdoms for a joke.

Will Death not come and rescue me entire?
What use is Life without you, dearest Queen?
Be back within in your arms, my one desire,
but Death refuses, nowhere to be seen.
And so I pass my days, in melancholy,
recounting each caress and every touch,
but it's of little help. How can one tally
the depths of my despair when it is such.
"Go, live", so says my fool, but Crystalina,
I have no use for the advice of fools.
The sun may rise again, and grass get greener,
but ours, the kind of love that knows no rules,
demands I spend my days in solemn prayer.
I'll join you soon, love, fairest of the fair.

Author notes: prompt: V. Her final ode (Sep. 2013)

How do you find the road less traveled?
Is it the color of the stones
with which the road was paved or graveled?
Betrayed by somewhat darker tones,
aha, so this one sees less traffic.
The reasons might be geographic,
the curvature of its design,
or possibly, an errant sign.
Still, you would like to make a statement
and so despite the simple math
you choose to choose this lesser path,
no matter that it's an abatement,
so step by step, betray no fear,
and when you get there, say: I'm here.