(A “bonus” love poem for classical forms month. — Owen)
Out past the river where the brittle-grass grows,
Over past the tower and the old White Rose,
Stands the empty ruin of a ten cent store
Where we used to go in the long-before.
We were in our twenties but we had our pride,
Living by the river in a single-wide,
Didn’t have a dollar, but we dreamed of more
Dancing by the river near the ten cent store.
You were very beautiful, and I was very fine —
You called me a lunatic — I called you mine —
Playing out our fantasies behind a door:
Rich in dreaming crazy, but in other ways, poor.
The brittle grass turned years ago to browns and grays,
No one’s at the White Rose any more these days,
Did the best we knew, and loved the best we could:
For lives that aren’t glamorous can still be good –
Yes, even white-rose-dime-store lives, can be
Passing through the seasons,
Much is left for wanting;
Parrying the reasons —
Harrying, and haunting —
But, those lost tomorrows
Still were worth amassing —
Deathless hidden sorrows:
The search for affirmation:
To peer into the soul,
And feel, without some other there,
It never could be whole —
Through calories and cue cards,
In pictures held ideal,
In people that she’s tried to be
Without it being real —
And oh, the long vexation
And emptiness she got:
Like every heart that tries to be
Exactly what it’s not —
It’s not a cosmic thing, about
Some wishing on a star:
The moon is yours, the day you learn
To love the girl
Dirt feels good on feet, until it doesn’t.
Is a hedge a sort of bush league?
Bad fences, good windows.
Power lines sag, are unsightly, and are completely vital; power poles are straight, strong, and play secondary roles.
Hope is a hill in the distance; love, green grass.
Bring me the night and you, and I need little more,
For nothing else intoxicates like this:
A realm of learnings, carried by uncommon core;
The many-volumed novel in a kiss
The lingering, a candle slow to burn the wick;
The curvature that’s well known to the touch —
The slightest little turn that finally does the trick,
The final gear that doesn’t need the clutch
A night and you, it’s all and it is everything:
A time for hearts to find the extra beats —
The sunrise waits to see what wonders we will bring,
A paradise of tangling and sheets
Our wine is so much more than just a fancy cup:
For where the night gives off, we’re only starting up
If decent words made perfect days,
Then all these verses would create
No hesitance between us now.
But such is not the world, or fate:
For while it’s true that love is much,
It can’t be everything, as such.
I see the fear upon your brow,
And worry that, one day, it stays.
To come together — pull apart —
This is the breathing cycle of
All things that with true meaning live:
Like people, friendships, fam’lies, love —
I wish, at times, it was not so.
This respiration, ebb-and-flow:
The taking off when you would give,
That stretches, frays, and wounds the heart.
Acceptance may be wisdom, true,
And love be more like gardening:
To know to wait when it is time
For balancing, or pardoning,
Or finding spaces in our words
For what, unspoken, must be heard —
That love knows boundaries. For I’m
Uncertain as to me and you,
Except, to know what I should do —
To wait ’til you come back to me,
If that day ever
outside down and inside up
grass like stalagmites of green
slender in the glitter-grass
glitter pop like dopamine
pop like summer fires lit
lit like english 101
outside down and inside up
cause finishing’s not being
There can be worlds within a room, it seems;
A population equal parts at play,
At work, at rest, and busy with their dreams.
The hip-hop, and the line dance — the ballet —
All types of dancing, singing, and the like.
The sweat of labor, and the blood of toil —
The medical: the surgeon and the psych;
The searcher, both of answer and of foil —
The populace of every time and place,
Collapsed into a space upon a couch:
Such myriads within a single face
May seem unlikely, but its truth I’ll vouch:
However long, I will not reach the feat
Of meeting all the you’s I’d love to meet
You are playing with your hair.
The sun shines down like an interrogation —
And after all this time, I stare.
It’s not that hard to know my motivation —
I watch the way that boys watch girls.
For there’s something hypnotic
About these simple movements:
To us guys, they’re so exotic —
What’s good is made of basic things,
They’re not that complicated:
When you are playing with your hair,
I’m gonna stare, because I’m