Get Your Premium Membership

through the Keyhole of Time

Through The Keyhole of Time The houses were made of old timber, like a Russian village on the endless steppe - maybe I had Dr Zhivago on my mind. But where was Lara? I was in Russia once thought it sinister, roads without light and black limousines gliding slowly by. Lived in a house that had rough planks for floors and no indoor loo, luckily it was summer that year. At a café, the woman who ran it looked as a woman I loved, and never lost my longing for. I visited the place, there were accordion music and much gayety, but the woman I loved looked at me with dislike when prancing around with her two lovers who were junior officers in the red army and went to the gym every day lifting dumbbells; impotent rage, thought of assassinating them. She, the woman I loved, had not aged I was now forty years older than her. When the music stopped she dismissed her lovers I asked her why she had left, she said it was because I was boring and had no sense of fun. When the music began, to prove her wrong, I danced to show her how much fun I was capable of, but I fell on the floor and for once people laughed. Knew I had failed her and could not understand what more I could do to make her love me. But I had been blind, outside a woman smiled, a warm African smile, it took me forty years before I met her again and mourn the lost years without her.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

Date: 4/25/2013 7:02:00 AM
Dear Jan: Forty years of wasted youth. I love how you start in one place and end somewhere never expected. So touching is this sweet poem, down to the dancing fool. love, Kathy
Login to Reply
hansen Avatar
jan oskar hansen
Date: 4/25/2013 8:15:00 AM
not totally wasted dear, i had fun in between