CRAZY LOVE, Sorry Interlude

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CRAZY LOVE,
Sorry Interlude




I am at a loss, dumbfounded,
Neither you nor I have forgotten the depth,
The big range of ready affection,
We always felt exceptionally well-suited,
We were great couple in many ways…



You yourself proclaimed our special bond.
One early, Sunday evening, mid August,
We stood at the corner,
Seventh Avenue at Twenty-Fourth Street,
We were awaiting the turn from red,
A traffic light signal , the sign to say GO,
When I told you of a recent article from “Science Times”,
The every Tuesday section of the New York Times,
It reported that the outside perimeter,
A year and half at tops, the time span of romantic love.

The passion subsides that quick scientists argue.

“Oh!” You immediately demurred,
We had not even crossed the Avenue, before
You took exception, challenged the current science,
And proclaimed, “Not for us!”
You professed the special heat, how our romance,
Our romance more akin eternal flame,
Not subject to normal wane of heart’s intensity.

My soul took flight, my love, ecstatic.
I felt like Superman able to leap tall buildings
With single, terrific bound; I believed my power
Greater than steam locomotive,
That I ran with the speed of bullets.

Poppycock! Tomfoolery personified,
And me idiot for believing a word you might say,
By October you were gone,
Your every promise, your solemn vows, prevarication.
Everlasting love, indeed! It lasted
A bit more than a month and one half.

I am sick of it, this terrible romance,
I can not go on, it’s too sad,
Too much, the caprice,
You toss me to the ground,
The ungrateful child’s unwanted toy,
However you may have wanted me,
I exist no more, and am broken.

For both of us there’s plenty desire,
You sneak up on me and stoke
The flame which still fires your heart,
Neighbors tell me they see you,
Saying how you haunt me,
How you seem unable to let me go,
Signs the real extent,
How much you must still love me.

And I write this love poem,
Though what was once this thing of ours,
This breath and we wondrous, beauteous mates,
Finished, driven apart, and my verse,
Has become a pathetic exercise, a sorry chapter
In story which goes nowhere,
It bears title, everything about us so crazy.

Had I not become accustomed to your way,
Spent no time next to you in bed,
Were I smart enough a man,
To have avoided you in the first place,
To have never said a word to you,
Except perhaps the usual humors,
The greetings ‘Good Morning, and Hello’,
The simple inquiry about your health,
Asking the everyday about how are you,
I would never have gotten to the point,
That loathsome feeling, you love me no more.

And equally, both sad and disturbing,
That mine, the warmest of regard,
Turns to disdain, and fervent wish,
We speak no more, and I never see you again.

I feel you woman. I have a telepathic gift:
I hear when you think of me, and you know it!
The vice-a-verse is true,
The communication goes both ways,
Right now I could clench my teeth,
Do an inward scream, and its loudness
Would startle you and disturb your sleep to dawn.

I wish I could caress you,
Practice the arts I had just started,
Oh, had I more time to turn you,
To make you love slave, enthrall you,
But I really wish, I might have forgotten you,
Relegated your touch to darksome narrow pass,
A place free, blank, where I
No longer remember your name.

Can’t you fall in love with someone else?

I know it’s wrong for me to say,
I love you. So let me go.
Time will strengthen my resolve,
I shall move on, your chance to reconcile,
To prove your word sincere and true,
Though once here, has come and gone.

Darling, we have fallen and are amiss,
No! No joy, fruitless to embark upon a road,
A road running toward distant horizon,
With its ultimate end, the final end of us.

My pledges of love, all my dreams, now lament,
My mind is rent, devastated is my heart
Neither can I live with nor without you.
I must stop it, quit the insanity.

I may believe, I may declare my love for you,
But can not find the reason,
No need for me to keep my holding on.

HE LOVES YOU, JUNIOR SAYS

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HE LOVES YOU,
Junior Says



Honey, remember,
Remember that girl friend of yours?
She was the one, who, you said,
Had abandoned all hope of love.
A boyfriend had ditched her;
He had dropped her hard.



She felt awful, bitter, and
Whenever she referred to him,
Instead of using own real name,
She nicknamed him “boy”.

She fell to despair,
And claimed that she no longer was able,
She could not imagine world without him.

I told you, then, were you ever to leave,
Break your every solemn vow, and
Go into world without me that
I too desire sobriquet. I said,

You might call me Junior!

Junior says,
He is lonesome.
He misses you terribly.
He awaits your return to his arms.
He knows your love is right.
He loves you. You are his heart.
He can not feel a thing without you.

That you had once called him 'dear'
Makes him one of the luckiest men alive!

You alone possess his soul.
You reside at center of his thoughts.
You are his every emotion.
You are his goddess;
You are his dream come true.

You are the love of his life.

LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, Version 2011

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LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER,
Version 2011



Oh where are you, my lovely?
How is it you stay away?
What strangeness drives you,
Turns our love into disappointment and woe?



I imagine, you might very well understand.

Yet do not suppose a simple story!

Do not figure you as the role player, the subject,
And, me, the writer, who recounts a conventional,
Everyday tale about love won and lost,
The common drama which depicts us flying
To marvelous heights and then dropping
To a hard, low-bottom sorrow.

For us there is no script with a beginning and an end.

The story stays; it remains the same.
Unlike all things sublunary it does not change.

You shine, darling, you shine.
Tonight you are bright and eternal.
And every morning you arise steadfast;
Your light warms my heart.

UNCLE TED

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UNCLE TED



It's a conceit, I know.

A tear appears when I remember
How difficult it was for him to pursue his labor,
That it hurt him to type a single page.



Even when I was still a child,
I recognized that his arthritic fingers must have ached
Down in the cold and humid of his cellar flat!

Uncle Ted is dead.
He need no more raise those burdened hands to work.

My grandmother's brother no longer prays.
The painted Virgin icon does not hear
The murmur of his fondest dreams,
Or the chant of his many rosary's repetitions.

And the pages and pages of the manuscripts he typed?

Why they are burnt!

STARBUCKS LOVE POEM, Early Sunday Evening Sorrow

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STARBUCKS LOVE POEM,
Early Sunday Evening Sorrow




Another early Sunday evening has arrived.

You, you are gone, abroad;
I sit by myself at Starbucks, and drink coffee.



Instead of us sharing our dinner together tonight,
I write verse about how much I miss you.

The notion, that adage about absence making
The heart grow fonder, is nonsense,
To me no more than a hill of beans!*

I am no fonder, no fonder of you than I was
Ten minutes ago at the start of this poem.

I am no fonder of you today than yesterday,
Than last week, than weeks ago,
When you departed on business,
Left me in this big, old town, alone,
During that time, since then, my love,
My love for you has not an iota grown.

Tonight I am simply sad.
I am lonely.
I feel terrible without you.


*A colloquial American expression as in “it ain’t worth a hill of beans”, Humphrey Bogart says it to Ingrid Bergman at the end of the film Casablanca, which brings the phrase into world-wide notice. “Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world”.

TIME FLIES, A Valentine's Day Version, 2011

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< TIME FLIES,
A Valentine's Day Version, 2011





Tempus fugit,
So the ancient adage goes.
But it prompts me to say,
Hey Virgil, this is stupid stuff,
Because for me at home alone
The clock has stopped.



Then, when I take another glance,
I realize from the timepiece's face
That I had been mistaken, my impression wrong,
There has been some movement,
That the clock’s hands have apparently moved.

Yet far from time fleeting,
The hours drag, even the second hand --
Its motion becomes imperceptibly slow,
When you are gone and
Day and night must be faced alone.

And you write to me and say that before long
You will return home. You declare that
Less than three weeks remain,
Soon, you add, your absence this day turns to memory,

And confidently note that time really does fly!

But for me, however you may try to comfort me,
Your consolation, why it does nothing to hasten the hours!
When I hear the clock, note the spaces
Between its regular tick-to-tock, those intervals,
They appear as if they were eternity, and your absence
-- Your face no longer upon your pillow,
Your body missing from your side of the bed --
You, you seem now to have been gone forever.

I know. I know. I exaggerate!
Yet I am not used to them,
These phenomena of your leaving,
Your terrible disappearances for the sake of business,
These separations, I may never become used to them.

You were reared different from me.

When you were still a child,
Your father was a frequent traveler;
You became habituated to the longing,
And you learned to practice
The ruse which had told your inner self that
He will be home before you know it.

I can hear you and your mother practicing the phrase,
When dad was gone and you two sat at home alone,
“Oh the days go by so fast!”

The electronic image of time before me
(to the bottom-right on the computer screen)
It reads 8:59PM.

It sits. It waits. My God, Darling!
My God! I hope you see the situation.

My condition is desperate.

The clock no longer runs.
For me here and languishing without you
Time stops.

I wish you were in my arms tonight.

DASH IT!

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DASH IT!



Dash it, Baby!
Is this really the best we can manage?
Here's the key, there's my desk,
You have my heart,
You can come and go, whenever you please.
If you can find a spare penny,
Keep it, please, and use it to wish us well.
I take my hat off to you.
Don't be hard on me old girl;
We have had a run of bad luck.
Things are bound to get better.

Well, are you happy?
I did say? I promised you, did I not, that
I would make you queen of my poetry.
Haven't I? Well, who of us is happy?
You take pleasure in your business.
You have your list of details,
All the very many, important things to do,
And now with your father gone,
You have the legal consequence, and its paper work.
I realize that you are accustomed to international travel,
Heavy baggage means little to you.
Then there is the situation with your mother,
I shall leave that to another poem.

And as for me, for me,
I sit up half the night writing poetry;
You must know I am lonely.
The company I seek
Requires more than the filling of physical space.

Oh, I shall survive, no need to worry.
But I am probably the gloomier of the two of us,
Yet I wonder how you push through the day,
How you manage a smile or roam open and free.

Dash it, Baby!
I am still caught up in the bondage of what once was us,
Tied to the time we worked to solve,
The intricacies that destiny seemed to hand to us.

It is hard to imagine you remain remote,
That now, and what seems forever,
You have become unavailable to me.