Snapshot: Her Evening

How she spends an evening —

Her landlord’s kids have strewn the walk with toys;
She smiles as she steps around a trike.
She hears within a laughing, running noise,
The joy of children to the childlike:
And after some brief play, she’s off to hike
The longish stairs that lead her to her room.
She flips a switch to chase away the gloom

That never really leaves nor really stays
(Except when tears unbidden come at night)
But she is cheerful on the worst of days.
She pauses by the mirror at her sight
(The wind has blown today – her hair’s a fright)
But soon downstairs she goes to talk and eat,
Before she makes her evening’s long retreat.

Up in her room, she thinks of what she’ll write.
Ideas she has, like waves or grains of sand —
She’ll work on three or four of them tonight,
Then stop to listen to a favorite band
Remembering, at once, his darkened hand
And that he is no longer by her side:
The man who played the groom to her young bride.

The house is quiet, all the kids in bed;
The night is still and peaceful in the main:
And love has never died within her head,
Nor been defeated by the throbbing pain
Of heart so full, it cannot all retain —
But still, the graceful night enfolds its own,
And love surrounds her, even when alone

The Dancing Snowflakes

The dancing snowflakes
Fall the way they always did —
But he is gone, he’s gone,
And all the magic
Seemed to go with him;
The magic
Seemed to go
With all the wonder

The day is white and glows,
The air is cold,
It’s cold and bracing —
But he is gone, he’s gone,
And all the breathing air
Seems wrong,
The air itself
Seemed to go
With him

And in a year, I’ll call,
And she will say
That she is well;
It’s not a lie –
But it’s not true, as well —
For he is gone, he’s gone,
And part of her is gone
The part that’s
Always with him

The Pride of Lucy

Lucy sat out in the sun
In cold and clear September;
She modeled for us her new life,
I always will remember

The pride she wore upon her face
As she soaked in the rays;
Not knowing pills and Crystal Head
Would soon cut short her days.

The pride of Lucy, young and full
Of beauty and its power;
The sharpened razor blades, so cold,
That hacked to death

The flower


 

(“The Pride of Lucy” – 12-27-2015)

Never

Never

Why won’t you ever show yourself?
She asks, at their low tide —
Why don’t you ever let me see
The man you are inside?


Why must you hide yourself from me?
There must be someone there —
Someone who has real feelings
Who can cry, or who can care

She pauses, and looks straight at him —
To give him time to fill
The silence up with words; alas —
He never
Never
Will

Imperfect Love (A True Story)

Imperfect love was perfect for them.
He recalls their wedding day —
Radiant in joy and sunshine,
Always, in his mind, that way

Never in a hundred lifetimes
Could he ever have foreseen
That she would be taken from him;
Left to celebrate and keen

For a ghost he longs for nightly,
Loneliest of earthly men;
Dreaming of imperfect love that
He will never find
Again

lost him

she lost him, though he never knew
she thought of him at all;
so many dreams of what they’d have
have slipped beyond recall —

she sees him there, with someone else,
and feels a sort of stir,
then wonders what she could have done
to make him long for her

there is a type of tractless grief
that’s not on any grid;
to miss what she has never had,
and things she never did

a fire that burned for seasons:
summer, winter, spring, and fall —
she lost him, though he never knew
that she loved him
at all


© Andriy Bezuglov | Dreamstime.com – In love couple sitting on the floor holding hands